Cooing with A$$

Cooking With... A$$

Twice-baked lyin' wife

We're running out of places for these wives to scurry off to for prolonged periods of time. Being in the food business, this idea came to me... with a little twist.

Relax; it's just a story, people.

[Copyright 2025, all rights reserved, including section 107 of US and international copyright law. Conversion of this work to audio file is strictly prohibited]

The kids had been extremely loud and talkative over dinner. I just looked around the table, cautious and curious. My wife rarely cooked my favorite on a Tuesday night and, of late, it was rare on any night. Roasted lamb loin with her special rub, lots of tarragon and thyme, a gem lettuce salad, the filet mignon of greens, roasted Parisienne potatoes in duck fat, and blistered garlic green beans.

If this sounds over the top, it is. Amanda, Mandy to friends and family, wasn't just my wife; she was a locally renowned chef.

The kids went off to do homework. Melodie, our daughter, was the troubled one. She was always more creative and had difficulty focusing on her studies. When I say troubled, I mean she was antsy, always on the move. At fifteen, I was starting to look ahead towards college and wondered if Mandy and I could reel her in, even get her GPA to a point where she'd be prepared for it.

Mark, at twelve, was a different story. Like me, he loved math and science. I'm Charles Dickenson, Chuck to my friends and family. I took a lot of heat over my name for my entire life. I thought as an adult it would end, but you'd be surprised by how many people don't know the name of that famous author.

While my wife is well-known around town, I'm an everyday accountant who jumped from a small local firm to a more prestigious one. We call a suburb of Detroit home, although much of Mandy's time is spent in the city. She regularly appears on the local television affiliate morning show, having a food segment whenever there's a holiday upcoming or just for summer barbecue ideas.

While my annual salary still exceeds hers, Mandy is no food service sloth. Her first concept restaurant, 'Motor City Tacos', became an instant hit. Oddly, the next one, called 'Taco Shack Stack', sent the concept straight to the top using clever packaging and marketing. The take-out 'stack' kept the food hot, the shells crispy, and separate from the other side dishes.

With the money we made when Mandy sold it to an investment firm that I had recommended, we bought our first home in a nice neighborhood and put some money aside for the kids' future education.

"Can we talk for a minute, Babe?" Mandy asked, somewhat tentatively. Most men dread those words, but I didn't. Mandy and I were a great couple; we were good together, almost always on the same page, and deeply in love. I made to give my undivided attention.

"I got an interesting call today," she began. "About a culinary... contest." She looked increasingly nervous as I raised an eyebrow.

"They are looking for participants," her voice level dropping. I was becoming worried. "Actually, contestants."

"Just spill it, Mandy," I could no longer take it.

"Sorry, all right," she shifted in her chair. "Chef Ron Silverman is hosting it."

"That knob, who screams at all the chefs on TV?" I asked incredulously. She hated that pompous pretender. Then it hit me.

"Participants?" I asked skeptically. "A contest? You're talking about some TV culinary game show, aren't you? They want contestants. Why are we even talking about this?"

She squirmed some more. "I want to do it," she said like a little mouse. "There's some... rivalry - a lot of local chefs from around the country. I'd be competing against Becca Quaide and Thomas Massey, that guy from Miami. He's no Thomas Keller, but he's up and coming. Also, some hotshot who's setting Chicago ablaze. Even Tyler Phillips will be there."

That last bit made me sit up straighter. "Wait a sec," I said, glaring at her. "You once told me Tyler Phillips was a moron, a crappy chef and a womanizer. Now you want to compete against him on a game show?"

"It's not just him, Chuck," she pointed out. "It's competing against some of the best chefs in the country. Yeah, he's an asshole, but he has restaurant concepts all over Texas. You know he started in Dallas, but he has top eateries in Austin and San Antonio."

We were quiet for a minute. "Why are you being so weird about it?" I had to ask.

"Because." Mandy replied quickly, "There's more to it. The show, well, is on a semi-private island in the Caribbean. They're calling it "Cooking your ass off" or something like that. The chefs will compete in beachwear... and very little of it."

That shocked me, and I knew Mandy could tell because a pained expression formed on her face. I tried to picture the other chefs she'd mentioned. The first was that damned Becca Quaide.

She was something to behold, that one. The hottest chef in the Seattle market, with the deep blue eyes and a camera presence far exceeding my own wife, not that I'd ever say that out loud. The men Mandy mentioned were also quite handsome and in good shape. Probably all that ancient grain they stuffed into their pieholes.

Mandy fit the bill, alright. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why they'd contacted her. My wife was a 5' 7" brunette with perky mid-sized boobs with nipples that pointed straight up at the sun. I always preferred it when they pointed at the moon. She had that super thin waist that curved into 'just slightly too big' hips and thin, attractive legs.

"What do you mean, very little?" I came back to the here and now.

"A bikini, Chuck," she said as if irritated. "We'll be doing a lot of the cooking outdoors. Beach stuff. That's all I know."

"And you didn't think to ask more specifics?" I was pushing her then. I wasn't going to deny her this opportunity, but something about the way she was telling... asking... irked me.

"No," she said in a pissed tone. "I want to do this. The kids are nearly self-sufficient, and I've been in a small rut lately."

She'd get no argument from me there. Life had gotten a little ho-hum over the past year. After many years of trying to build my business clientele and earn their trust, things were finally going well, and I felt settled. Mandy had sold her first taco place and reinvested. In a few years, between the two of us, we'd have plenty of money to start looking at early retirement.

"That's fine," I replied. "Are you sure you want to be a sex object in front of a national audience? I know I don't want that for you. I know how seriously you take your profession, but we've often discussed how many others don't. I only wonder if this will do anything for your professional stature other than to exploit your physical stature."

"I know," she told me, "but I'm hoping to reignite my status a bit. It will be good for our restaurants, me having my face on the national stage."

"And your ass," I reminded her. My smile disarmed her, and she came over and sat on my lap.

"As long as you're one of the people looking and not at that hussy, Quaide." I gave an innocent look to no avail.

"Don't look at me like that, mister," she mock scolded. "I've seen the drool running down your chin whenever she's on Good Morning America."

Mandy and I had a rare mid-weeknight tumble that night. She was extra into it, which drove me to give her my all. As we lay there recovering, she looked at me.

"Thanks for this, Chuck," she said lovingly. "I appreciate you and the leeway you're giving me. I know they'll try to dress up the female chefs in as skimpy bikinis as possible, but that's even okay with me. I'm getting older and not feeling as sexy as I once did. I'm not there to showcase my body, only my culinary skills, but the attention will do wonders for my ego."

"Just as long as your ego is the only thing that gets stroked," I teased. She hit me with her pillow.

"Chuck," she said more seriously. "You know, if I lose a round, then I come home. But if I make it to the final round and/or win, it will be almost four weeks of taping. Will you be okay with just you and the kids for that long? I've already talked to my mom and sister about lending a hand while I'm gone."

"I'm perfectly capable," I told her. "When would you have to leave?"

Mandy told me about the show. She had been given a lot of information for a contestant. The producers wanted the premier episode to coincide with the NCAA Men's Basketball championship game. It would run the month of April, and depending on the island's weather, it could finish as late as May tenth.

Since I hadn't said no, Mandy seemed still in negotiating mode for the next two days. I hoped she had used our lovemaking time to negotiate, but that was not the case. After the kids had gone to bed, I finally pulled her aside and told her to stop.

"I've already thought about it," I admitted. "I don't have a problem with you going. Just ensure you give it your all and beat those other clowns."

Mandy wrapped me in a warm hug, and we ended up having another stellar night of sex. I asked her mockingly what had brought that on.

"I just feel so alive, thinking about doing this," she said, her smile beaming. "I love you so much for being such a sweetheart about it."

Over the following weeks, more details emerged about the show's structure. Sixty popular local chefs from all over the country were competing for a $500,000 prize. I was excited about that and what it would mean for our family, being half a mil richer.

The initial two-hour premiere would showcase twenty of those chefs, and Mandy said she hoped to be one of them, citing what it would do for her career.

The show would air twice weekly, and the other forty would be given their share of airtime that first week, but to a lesser degree. Once the field was cut in half, the remaining chefs would get more airtime, with Ron Silverman delving deeper into their lives outside their careers. I asked Mandy what she would say about us, the kids and me. It was the only time we talked about the show where she appeared nervous. And while she spewed words, they were innocuous platitudes that sounded more like a political message than an expression of her life with me and the kids. She really hadn't said anything.

The time finally came. Mandy and I had worked together on an elaborate schedule for the children, including times when I might have to work late on a last-minute project, etc.

Both sets of parents lived within half an hour of us, so they had a few marching orders, too. I kissed my wife goodbye, and she kissed me back passionately, ignoring the kids and her friend who was taking her to the airport.

"I love you, Chuck." A few tears slid down her cheek. "Thanks for being such a wonderful husband." Her sincerity was apparent. "Remember, I'll only be able to call you on Monday and Wednesday nights, so make sure the kids are home, okay?"

The filming schedule was aggressive because of all the variables. Working outside in a tropical paradise wasn't always fun and games. One day of rain, or even a few hours, the way storms moved across those islands, could set them back a day or more. Many days of rain could cause even bigger problems. That meant there would be some nighttime competition scenes, not just sitting around a fire talking amongst themselves about whose dishes did well or who had had to leave the island.

One week after my wife left our home, the first show aired. Mandy had a prominent five-minute spot in which she detailed her background and passion for all things culinary. No questions were asked about her family, and I'd expected that.

I wasn't expecting what happened on the second show. The remaining chefs were paired up to see which chefs could check their egos and work together to stay alive for the prize money. Mandy was paired with Tyler Phillips. She hadn't told us that in our calls the previous Monday and Wednesday. I wondered if the producer or director had sprung it on them, but when the show's announcer mentioned how and when the chefs had been assigned their teammates, I knew she could have said something the last night we'd spoken.

I also didn't know how much of a reality show was real. The competition was simple: Each team had to prepare an appetizer, main entrée, and dessert. The team would decide which would do the app, and the other would prepare the entrée; then, they would have to work together on the dessert. Mandy and Tyler were at odds from the get-go. They were seen standing at a prep table whispering animatedly to each other as though in a heated, hushed argument.

Finally, she threw her hands up in surrender and gave Tyler a look I knew all too well. I was glad he was the recipient and not I. As they scrambled to gather their ingredients, Mandy could be heard berating him.

"If I lose this because of you, I'll..." She stopped, realizing she was on camera.

"Yeah, I know! I know." He responded sarcastically.

"You better get that lamb in the oven," she warned. "If you plan to braise it in the allotted time. Don't forget, we need to make this dessert. See you back at the table in 30 minutes."

"Aye, Aye, Captain," he saluted her. I thought she might commit murder on live TV.

This event occurred in the central kitchen, and everyone was dressed in chef coats and hats. The first broadcast had shown a few of the chefs, both male and female, in their beachwear. Mandy had only been seen for several seconds, running toward the ocean, her ass cheeks bouncing seductively. This show seemed like all business.

Lamb was Mandy's specialty. If she had submitted to Tyler, letting him cook that entrée, I knew she had to be fuming mad, and that would most certainly affect her appetizer. I watched with the kids as my wife set her mind to her task, drowning everything else in the room.

The team they were going head-to-head with was calm and collected, behaving the opposite of my wife and her teammate. The camera focused on Mandy and Tyler and their cold treatment of one another. Two other struggling teams also got a lot of airtime.

Ultimately, they created a deconstructed baked Alaska, a variation of an old-school dessert. It featured an actual labyrinth around blocks of ice cream and cake where the cherry Kirsch liqueur would light the way to the center.

A commercial break occurred, and I grabbed a beer, nervous that my wife's TV career might be short-lived. Had I known how the last fifteen minutes of the show would play out, I might have turned off the tube and gone to bed.

Mandy and Tyler appeared before the judges, and I was shocked to see that they were applauded for working past their egos. Their three-course meal was well received, and they easily beat the team they were cooking against. Amidst the applause, a new scene appeared on the screen.

Mandy and Tyler were standing outside in what looked like the garbage area of the central kitchen. It was nighttime, and only a single lamp over the door illuminated the pair.

Tyler was smoking, and the two were in an animated conversation again. Like most reality shows, the microphones were powerful, intended to pick up scattered and hushed speech.

"Have you told him yet?" Tyler said, handing Mandy the lit cigarette he'd been puffing on.

Mandy shook her head as she took a drag, sharing it with Tyler. Since when did my wife smoke, and who was the 'him' Tyler had referred to?

He moved behind my wife and began massaging her bare shoulders. Mandy had taken off her chef coat, presumably to avoid being overcome by the damp tropical heat. She was wearing a white wife-beater of sorts. She made no attempt to stop him.

"You better do it soon, Mandy," he threatened. "I'm not playing around, and I'm losing patience."

"How am I supposed to do it?" she implored, turning and handing him the shared cigarette.

Tyler was nonplussed. "That's not my problem. I've already waited a long time, and you're stalling. I'm prepared to disrupt your tidy, little life. Don't make me do that."

Son-of-a-bitch, I thought. This guy is fucking my wife and trying to pressure her to leave me, maybe even our famil...

I looked at the kids sitting there, stunned. Fuck.

In a panic, I grabbed the remote, fumbling with it before finally pressing the power button. "That's all for tonight, kids. Bedtime."

They turned their stunned look to me. Mark was a twelve-year-old. That, combined with being a boy, it was likely he was just confused. Melodie was another matter entirely. She'd be thinking exactly what her Dad had.

Oddly, I got no fight from them.

The kids went upstairs to do whatever kids do on their devices. Melodie came down an hour later and sat close to me. I wasn't in any better shape to talk about it with her.

"Dad," she inquired. "Was that acting for the show? I mean, it didn't look like it to me, and based on your reaction... Daddy, are you divorcing Mom?" The tears started in the middle of her sentence. My fifteen-year-old was nobody's fool and was a chip off the old block.

"I can't answer that, sweetie," I pulled her into a hug. "It looks like your Mom and I have a lot to discuss. Let's take it one step at a time, okay?"

"Who is that man?" she asked, calming down slightly.

"I have no idea, baby, but I will find out," I promised. "Now it's bedtime and I want you to try to put it out of your mind. Everything will work out okay." I lied, of course, but I didn't know what else to do or say. She was hurting and worried, just like me.

The weekend was a quiet affair. I admit to catching up on a ton of yard work, trying to avoid my children's questions. I couldn't avoid it altogether, as Sunday, they hounded me to go out to our favorite pizza restaurant.

"I asked Grandma about that guy," Melodie said as we waited for the pie to be delivered to the table. "She seemed... prepared for my question. Said she didn't notice any familiar or intimate touching."

I knew Mandy's parents well, and we all got along. Her mother, Helen, was sharp as a tack. There would be no way she wouldn't have noticed. Thinking about it, both sets of parents had gone radio silent since the episode aired.

"I don't know what is going on, kids," I told them honestly. "But you can bet I'll find out when she gets home."

That didn't soothe them. I wasn't in the mood to try. I had my own huge problems.

The next morning, I was sitting in my office, generally unproductive. I hadn't spoken to my wife, but she'd call home tonight. I tried to think about how I would address what I'd seen. For all I knew, she didn't know they were filmed or recorded. Maybe she thought they'd been quiet enough. Still, she had to know everyone had seen her smoking and getting a tender massage from her lover.

My computer pinged, alerting me to a new email.

Mr. Dickenson,

I can assure you it's not what you think - it's much worse. I'm sorry to be this bearer of such bad news. I saw the episode the other night, and I can't, in good conscience, remain silent. I'm sending you a package this afternoon, UPS. You'll understand when you receive it. I'm sorry.

An anonymous friend.

What the absolute fuck was going on? My mind raced. Was this legit, or was it some stalker fan or random person watching the show? Could it be an extortionist or some sort of blackmail? First, the intimate chat between them, now this. My mind went into overdrive.

When the package arrived, I decided not to accept it. There was too much looming, and I needed to focus on the main issues. I decided that almost anyone could have found my email through Mandy's name.

The kids and I were just finishing dinner when the house phone rang. There hadn't been a day since I met Amanda that I hadn't looked forward to talking to her, until that day. I was so upset it would take everything in me not to blow up at her in front of the kids.