By Karol Markowicz
October 18, 2015 | 10:18pm
Toward the end of every summer, my husband sends me a list of 20 or so dishes he would like me to cook for him. It’s different every year and includes things like Frito pie, gumbo, clam chowder, taquitos, ribs.
No, we’re not going through “Mad Men” withdrawal or pining for Eisenhower’s America. This is how we observe the very modern ritual of football season. But the NFL’s greedy investment in Thursday-night games is threatening a schism in the Gridiron Church.
My husband’s dish list keeps me busy while he lounges on our couch watching the games. Some years, I don’t get to all of them, and they roll over to the following year. Some dishes become beloved and therefore frequently repeated.
On Sundays during the football season, my husband doesn’t accompany me to the many children’s birthday parties that our kids get invited to. We don’t make plans to go out. My husband isn’t responsible for errands. We don’t do any shopping. I don’t engage him in conversation about anything more complicated than “What’s the score?” and “So you want more of that?”
