You know yourself about the perils of cooking with a gas cooker while you're dragging an oxygen cylinder behind you...it isn't wise actually, so I don't do it.
What I do is bawl instructions through to the kitchen so Himself can do the cooking...but he's deaf and I can't shout for long 'cos it brings on a coughing fit so it tends to be a bit hit and miss...we have a range as well, in the sitting room which will cook on the top when it feels so inclined and will only cook in the oven part if the winds in the right direction...which tends to be in the middle of June when we don't light the range anyway...
Himself puts the Brussels Sprouts on the range and they sort of fester...I heave myself to my feet and drag them over to the side and then he comes back in and puts them back where they were...
Roast potatoes are a puzzle to Himself you know...I say put them on to boil for a few minutes...he says are they ready yet...I say have you put the roasting pan in the oven yet? He says he hasn't. Don't forget the oil I say...which oil shall I use he asks...
Poke the chicken with a sharp knife I yell...does it look cooked? I don't know he says...I'll bring it through and then you can see what you think...and he does. I prod it in its leg and it doesn't squeak so it must be done...
The dogs are gazing hopefully at the oven tray containing roast chicken and the poor creatures are dribbling all down their chins and making little puddles on the floor...
And the gravy, I shout...how do I make the gravy...I've forgotten he says...read the feckin tub I shout back...read the instructions! Have you your glasses? I think I left them in the car he says...
In the end we sit down at the table and eat...and it's grand so it is.
thats what love is all about 
What the heck?
