Men (the ones of the masculine persuasion, anyway) are simple creatures. We are easy to please. So easy, that I have no reservation whatsoever to speak for my brethren:
Men love fried chicken.
It's not exactly the great big secret of the universe, or the meaning of life, but it does come pretty damn close. The thing is, women know this. But for reasons that elude me, when a woman transitions in her life to become a mother or a wife, she conveniently forgets. Allow me to illustrate.
My mother was in town only recently. "James loves steamed chicken," she tells Mae. "He does?" Mae reconfirms with Mom. "I love fried chicken," I yell from across the room, disturbed by the conversation that was taking place before me. "Yah, he loves steamed chicken."
Isn't it amazing how mother knows best? That was just barely a month ago.
A couple of weeks ago I call home. "We're having rendang chicken," Mae tells me. "Why can't we ever have fried chicken?" "But you love rendang chicken," she rationalises. You can never really talk to a woman.
Still, miracles do happen.
Monday night, Mae made fried chicken. And that night, as I clocked up my cholesterol count, I fell in love with my wife all over again. Isn't it any wonder that the physical manifestations of love closely resembles a mild cardiac arrest?