Frontier Follies

by Ree Drummond

  I should also point out that if Ladd and I ever have the chance to go out to a restaurant for a nice meal, which is approximately once every forty-seven years, he makes it a practice to completely abstain from food for the entire day leading up to the meal. I can’t imagine going three hours without eating, so the concept is foreign to me, but his thinking is that by doing this, (a) he’ll have a much more guilt-free eating experience because he hasn’t consumed any other calories that day, and (b) he’ll be so hungry by the time he eats his meal, it will taste that much more delicious. Again, we hardly ever go out to eat. Ladd wants every moment of it to count.

  Problems in the world (and in our marriage) arise when you add Ladd’s pre-dinner-date abstinence and his LBSCBD together. By the time we are finally on our way to the eating establishment (usually at least an hour away from the ranch), Ladd hasn’t eaten and is veering very quickly toward crankdom. Usually the hope of the coming meal buoys his mood enough to sustain him until the bread basket gets set on the table, so while I wouldn’t describe our pre-date car conversation as energetic or chatty, I appreciate that he is able to grin and bear it and not come completely unraveled. Again, I never deny myself food, so I can’t relate to this bizarre practice at all. If my stomach so much as growls on the way to a dinner date, I’ll pull over to a McDonald’s and order some fries.

  With all of the above in mind, Ladd and I were invited to a charity gala many years ago. We aren’t gala types—in fact, this would be the first gala my husband had ever attended in his life—but my sweet stepmother Patsy happened to be the director of the performing arts center where the gala was taking place, and she and my dad invited us to join them at their table. So one Saturday night, following a morning and afternoon of Ladd denying himself all food because of the promise of a big dinner, we got dressed up in black and headed toward Gala Land. Ladd was strangely excited! He never loved dressing in a suit, but because of our middle-of-America geography, he predicted that either prime rib or beef tenderloin lay ahead—an educated guess given that beef usually has a significant presence at weddings and other catered events in our region of the country. After the long drive from the ranch and an hour-long cocktail reception (with tiny, frilly canapés he politely passed on), he was more than ready for a big, hearty supper.

  When we finally sat down to our table, I knew things might be headed south. Our first course, the appetizer, had already been placed on the table. Imagine if you will a cowboy who thinks the sun rises and sets on a steak and a baked potato, and imagine he’s so hungry that he can no longer concentrate on what’s going on in the room around him. Then imagine that he sits down to eat and sees in front of him a shiny white plate with two silver-dollar-sized crostini—one spread with an artichoke puree and one spread with tomato compote. While such food delights and excites me, it is nothing that Ladd would ever in a million years place inside his mouth. First, it’s too small. Second, it’s topped with mushy substances that are unrecognizable. Third . . . no. He didn’t want to appear rude, however, so he waited until I ate both of mine, then stealthily slipped his crostini onto my plate. (Ever the dutiful wife, I went ahead and ate them. I didn’t want to appear rude, either.)

  The second course arrived: roasted squash gazpacho with an anchovy fillet. Heaven for me, hell for Ladd, and again, I quickly slurped down his helping. His normally soft blue eyes turned ice cold. He loosened his tie as he exhaled. Third course: watercress salad consisting of five leaves. Ladd normally likes salad—but there wasn’t any ranch dressing on it, and they forgot the iceberg lettuce. This was some kind of Greek tragedy! I could hear his stomach rumbling. It sounded like the T. rex in Jurassic Park. My man wanted to be fed. Any attempt to put on a happy face was now gone with the previous course’s dishes. I gave him a compassionate glance as I gobbled down his watercress.

  The fourth course was the last straw: it was lacquered salmon, and Ladd eats neither lacquer nor salmon. That was it. He couldn’t take it anymore. “They’re actually trying to kill me, aren’t they?” he whispered in my ear. He wasn’t joking. His hunger level had stripped him of all clear thinking and paranoia was officially setting in. This whole thing—this “gala”—was all a conspiracy now, an evil plan hatched by my dad’s darling wife and her evil board of directors. They knew Ladd, the cattle rancher, would be coming to the dinner. And they put crostini and shiny fish on the menu just to watch him in agony. It was all finally becoming clear to him. How could people be so cruel?

  Giving the whole “good sport” thing one final try, Ladd took a small, half-hearted bite of his salmon at the same time I took a large, wholehearted bite of mine. I found it delicious, though decidedly fishy. The glaze was an explosion of flavors and very spicy—a recipe for disaster for my husband’s steak-and-potato palate. He leaned in again, resting his hand on my shoulder: “I’ll be right back,” his sexy voice whispered in my ear. He got a little glaze on my earlobe, but I decided not to dwell on it.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “McDonald’s,” he answered.

  Honestly, I wasn’t shocked at all. Relieved was more like it. That man had to eat, and he wasn’t going to be able to eat as long as he stayed at the gala. I seriously couldn’t bear the torture of watching him navigate this meal any longer.

  “Oh my gosh, go,” I whispered, reassuring him. “I’ll cover for you.” My dad and Patsy were making the rounds, only returning to our table for moments here and there. They would never know he had left, and he’d probably be back from McDonald’s within twenty minutes if he didn’t get stopped for speeding.

  I had something else to tell him before he left. “And don’t worry, honey,” I whispered. “I’ll finish the rest of your food to make sure no one suspects a thing.” He didn’t hear that last part because he was already peeling out of the parking lot, probably laying some serious scratch on the pavement. Ladd left just in time to miss almond-encrusted pork tenderloin with an herbed grit cake, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Soon he would be sinking his teeth into a quarter pounder with cheese and driving back my way. All was working out as it should.

  Just then my dad came over to the table with a very important-looking gentlemen who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. He was a benefactor of the performing arts center, and he wanted to meet Ladd, whom he’d pegged as a fellow cowboy earlier in the evening. My dad looked around the table, and then around the room. “Where’s Ladd?” he asked quizzically. “Bathroom,” I said. My dad was satisfied with this explanation, and he and Benny Factor said they’d be back by in a bit. I was actually enjoying scarfing down double portions of the gala dinner. At what point in my life would I ever again have this opportunity and be able to call it a marital service?

  Long story short, Ladd returned to the gala no less than forty-three minutes after he’d departed for the Golden Arches. When I saw him enter the room, he had a glowing light of joy all about him, a look of culinary contentment on his face. He slipped into his seat as if he’d been gone only a few moments and casually joined the various circles of table conversation that were already taking place. Unfortunately, I was just finishing my own slice of Chantilly cake and hadn’t had a chance to wolf down Ladd’s . . . so he went ahead and dove into his piece. Finally, something at the gala that he could eat! If only they’d served the cake as the starter course.

  I studied my husband for a second and immediately knew something was up, because (a) he had been gone for almost forty-five minutes, and (b) he looked almost drunk with happiness. “How was McDonald’s?” I whispered, leaning close to his chiseled shoulder. “And what’s her name?!?” I didn’t really say that last part, but the point is—he was acting suspicious. That’s when my beloved laid it on me that in the span of time he’d been absent, he’d managed to find a nice steak house, sit down, order and polish off a medium-rare rib eye and baked potato, pay his tab and a 25 percent tip, and arrive back at the gala just in time for dessert. He was almost manic as he quietly relayed his coup to me—probably the r
esult of both having filled his stomach with satisfying food after a long famine and having pulled off the perfect crime.

  As for me, I had a great evening. I was able to get out with my husband, wear a black dress, have adult conversation, and eat what was, in my opinion, really delicious food.

  (I even got two of each helping!)

  Cheatin’ Movies

  Ladd and I love movies. This (among other things) attracted us to each other while we were dating, and watching some kind of movie together is still our favorite way to spend a Saturday night. (Or any night!) And while my fella and I are aligned on most cinematic genres (except action; I don’t think they make ’em like they used to), Ladd regularly points out something he has noticed about me, his wife: I have a penchant for watching “cheatin’ movies.” Without admitting guilt, I will first define the terms.

  Cheatin’: marital infidelity.

  Movie: a cinematic motion picture.

  Cheatin’ movie: a cinematic motion picture in which marital infidelity is often glorified or celebrated.

  Let me defend myself: I do not in any way, shape, or form set out to find cheatin’ movies to watch. I do not endorse cheatin’ as a healthy practice, either. It’s just that I love a lot of movies, and some of them—by no fault of my own—just happen to have a storyline involving cheatin’. Can I help it if Hollywood occasionally romanticizes infidelity—or that I actually fall for it? It’s not my fault.

  Let me defend myself again: I have never cheated on Ladd—not when we dated, not while married. I can say with confidence that I will never cheat on Ladd. And not that physical attractiveness in any way insulates a person from being cheated on . . . but please look at the Wrangler-wearing ridiculous deliciousness that is my husband. To quote the beautiful, incomparable Whitney Houston, Ladd is all the man that I need. And also, I’m tired. Where would I find the energy?

  No—cheatin’ movies, for me, are all about the acting! And the writing. And the cinematography, of course. I can’t help it if the movie industry doesn’t honor the sacrament of marriage, and I’m not willing to boycott an otherwise lovely, entertaining movie just because one of the characters happens to stray. If Ladd continues to give me trouble about this, I will be forced to start giving him trouble about all the movies he watches that involve car theft. I’ll just start calling them stealin’ movies! He doesn’t want to go toe to toe with me on that.

  Back to cheatin’ movies, though: Here are some examples. I love them; Ladd hates them. And we both lived happily ever after.

  The Age of Innocence is high on my list of the greatest cheatin’ movies of all time. Based on the 1920 Edith Wharton novel, this Scorsese-directed masterpiece chronicles a character named Newland Archer (played by the highly dishy and intense Daniel Day-Lewis) who is engaged to sweet, pure May (Winona Ryder) but obsessed with Countess Olenska (Michelle Pfeiffer). The whole angsty tale is just painful and luscious to watch—Newland loves May and knows in his head she is the right choice for him, but the scandal-ridden countess is just too alluring for him to resist, and they ultimately share an all-body, groan-ridden, slightly cringy kiss before the countess calls things off for fear of hurting sweet, pure May, her beloved first cousin! Newland does wind up marrying May but continues to obsess over the countess, and a couple of years into marriage, he finally works up the courage to leave May . . . but not before she tells him she’s pregnant. The Age of Innocence is so great for kindergartners! Just kidding. I can’t pass up the opportunity to watch it, and Ladd can’t bear to watch five minutes of it. Newland needs to be a man, my husband huffs, and stop trying to straddle two worlds! (Ladd is such a buzzkill.)

  Violets Are Blue is another one: It’s a little-known 1986 movie that stars Sissy Spacek and oh-so-dreamy Kevin Kline, and it is absolutely awful . . . and so romantic! Sissy and Kevin are high school sweethearts whose plans for the future are interrupted both by her ambition to travel the world as a photojournalist and by the fact that he “accidentally” fathered the child of another woman—the nice girl next door, played by Bonnie Bedelia.

  So here’s where the cheatin’ comes in, and it is egregious: Thirteen years after high school, Sissy returns to her small, coastal hometown to visit her parents for the first time since she left. And of course, she bumps into Kevin, who is now happily married to Bonnie (with whom he shares a now-teenage boy) and running his father’s newspaper. In a nutshell, Kevin invites Sissy over to his family’s home for dinner, Bonnie makes them all gazpacho, then Sissy says good night and starts to walk home. It’s about to rain, so good-hearted Bonnie tells her nice, trustworthy husband to walk Sissy home. It’s the right thing to do, after all.

  So on the walk home, Sissy has a meltdown and starts crying because Kevin has a home and a family that he obviously loves, and Sissy doesn’t even have a cat. Then they start arguing. Then they start yelling. Then they start kissing. Ultimately they wind up “reuniting” under the pier just a few paces away from her destination.

  Kevin! Why???

  The pier incident begins a plunge-back-into-the-past affair that culminates in Kevin facing the choice of whether to abandon his family and go travel the world as Sissy’s journalistic sidekick . . . or to remain in the honorable—but somewhat mundane—life he’s chosen. You’ll have to watch the movie to see which life he winds up choosing, but my favorite line of the movie is when Bonnie finds out that Kevin’s been unfaithful and is considering leaving his small town for a more exciting life with his old flame: “If you want to go, go. I can’t compete with her. But I’m not going to apologize for liking it here!” You tell him, Bonnie!

  (See, Ladd? I root for the wronged spouse sometimes, too. Also, Sissy Spacek has never looked more beautiful.) Ladd absolutely loathes Violets Are Blue.

  Cousins is another absolutely blatant cheatin’ movie. It’s about a woman, played by Isabella Rossellini, who is more radiant than I ever thought possible, and who’s in an unhappy marriage with a philandering husband. It’s also about a man, Ted Danson, who’s in an unhappy marriage as well with a vivacious (and, it turns out, philandering) woman. True to form, Isabella’s husband and Ted’s wife hook up behind the bushes at an extended family wedding after having just met, which leaves Isabella and Ted searching in vain for their respective rides home. They strike up a friendship, both quietly aware of their spouses’ dalliance, and wind up spending a beautiful weekend together in a lakeside cabin doing nothing but lamenting their spouses’ cheatin’ . . . while also cheatin’ (together) on their spouses. It’s such a heartwarming movie, and Ladd still hasn’t forgiven me for making him watch it.

  However, the Big Kahuna of all cheatin’ movies—absolutely the most unapologetic, flagrant example—is Same Time, Next Year. In this particular flick, Alan Alda and Ellen Burstyn play characters who are married to other people but who have an “accidental” (oops!) affair at a cliffside hotel when they’re both traveling away from home one weekend. They love their spouses (obviously!) but feel such a connection with each other that they agree to meet at the same hotel at the (wait for it) same time next year!

  Naturally, the affair continues through the decades, and the movie does do a beautiful job of portraying the passage of time from the 1950s to the 1970s in America, and all the changes both of their families go through during that time. And while it’s a total burr in the saddle of anyone who values fidelity in a relationship, it does us all the favor of at least acknowledging through the course of the movie that Alan’s and Ellen’s spouses are real human beings who have done nothing to warrant having their husband and wife cheat on them once a year.

  Unfortunately, Alda and Burstyn are so incredibly charming in Same Time, Next Year and have such a burning—yet still innocent and likable—chemistry that it’s impossible not to come away from the movie cheering for them. But you still cheer for their spouses, too! That is the brilliance of this whole sordid film, and Ladd almost insisted that I go to marriage counseling after I asked him to watch it with me once, because I told
him that “it really is such a smart, sweet movie.” He completely sided with Alan’s and Ellen’s betrayed spouses and asked me to articulate what on God’s green earth was smart and sweet about two married people perpetuating a decades-long lie. I didn’t really have a good answer, but I’m still working on it.

  And that’s when I decided to keep my cheatin’ movies to myself and watch them alone. Ladd and I share a house, four children, a ranch, and an entire life . . . but we don’t have to share TVs!

  The Love Robot

  During the first semester of my freshman year in college, I went to a Halloween party with my roommate. She and I had lived together for a couple of months by then, and had already become good friends, so the thought of dressing up and heading out to a party to meet new people sounded like a great way to spend an evening. My roommate dressed up as Satan in a cute little red satin number; I dressed up as a cat, which consisted only of black Guess jeans (zipper ankle), a black Gap turtleneck, and whiskers drawn on my face with Estée Lauder eyeliner. My roomie and I made plans to meet up with her new love interest, Mikey, at the party, and we were so excited for the big time that lay ahead!

  I wasn’t at the party five minutes when I decided that rather than speak, I was just going to meow the rest of the night. It started out subtly enough: A friend I bumped into looked at me and said, “Oh! A cat! Awesome! Meow!” and walked away. I quietly answered, “Meow.” She didn’t hear me, of course, but that didn’t matter to me. I continued to walk all over the frat house, meowing whenever someone looked in my direction. I did not utter a human word the rest of the night. If someone stopped to chat, I’d string together several meows, putting emphases on various ones so it would sound conversational. Some people laughed and moved on. Other people looked at me like I was troubled and moved on. And I didn’t really care what reactions I was getting; I just knew I was fully committed to my feline character and nothing was going to cause me to quit. A cute blond frat boy bumped into me and sloshed his drink, and I hissed angrily and made a violent clawing gesture. “Jesus,” he muttered as he walked away.