Last summer my older brother called at the cottage to say he was arriving that afternoon with a +1. “How long will you stay?” I asked. He said “depends on how much you like my new friend”. As he is SWM of a certain age and never married, his +1 have run the gamut over the years. Sometimes half his age, sometimes twice his age (?), always though, very interested in his inimitable ‘je ne sais quoi’ (these are his words).
So, as much as nothing about anything surprises me anymore, he surprised me. All of us, in fact. He arrived with a 9 week old puppy. As big brothers know everything and are good at everything (just ask him), this was going to be a cinch for the bachelor.
It is practically scientific that when man divorces or is widowed, 5-6 casseroles a day appear on his doorstep and will grow exponentially to the point of near casserole traffic jam at his door until he finally chooses the best ‘dish’ or for the unimaginative primate, the closest dish, the warmest dish or the pushiest dish.
A newly separated or widowed woman was, 30 years ago, cast out socially, considered a threat and avoided like the plague. Today we continue to mystify, sometimes threaten and carry a burden of making all our own casseroles ourselves.
When we rendered ourselves “equal”, we forgot the casserole clause.