"Because he's trying to feel something," I say, happy to disseminate my psychological analysis. "He can't feel anything because he got fired."
Sous Chef stops. No, freezes. He turns to face me, his blue eyes piercing into my soul. He's giving me a look I've only ever seen on the faces of movie characters when they're dismantling a bomb - it's a combination of panic, anger, and utter solemnity.
"Okay," he breathes, "No more Mad Men until I figure out what I missed."
I have betrayed my Sous Chef. Unintentionally, yes, but a betrayal nonetheless.
Apparently, in the hubbub of household projects, work schedules, snow removal, and cooking experiments, the very important lines of communication concerning Netflix bingeing rate have gotten crossed.
I am Ahead. I know Things.
Lucky for me, I had a genius dinner idea tonight. We had some leftover ribs from Sous Chef's ManDate with a buddy, during which they'd also smoked salmon, turkey, and bourbon-dipped cigars.
I stripped the meat from the bones and served it over a salad with sliced Granny Smith apples, a quick maple-Dijon vinaigrette, and some really good cheddar (when you're on TR-90 and you only get one solid meal a day, you go for the good stuff).
The result is now nestled in a bowl in Sous Chef's lap, his next bite - a perfectly proportioned forkful of juicy meat, crisp apple, and buttery lettuce - resting on top, patiently waiting for the shock of the betrayal to pass and dinner to continue.
I'm so glad the salad is good. I need this win.
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