By Tim Sanders

Here’s to specificity. No, no, I mean HERE ... right here! I am a big fan of specificity because I am a man, and need all the specifics I can get. For example, last night Marilyn and I were listening to that little computer-generated voice on the Weather Channel telling us that on Friday it would be "partly sunny," and then on Saturday it would be "partly cloudy." I needed more specifics. My question to Marilyn was "Is partly sunny more sunny than partly cloudy, or vice versa?" This, of course, led to the question "Is partly drunk more inebriated than partly sober, or is it the other way around?"

As usual, she had a non-specific answer. "Hush," she said, "You’re giving me a headache."

I think specificity is especially important when it comes to directions. What I am about to say will sound sexist, but that is only because ... well, because I am a sexist. I’ve tried to change, but it’s no use. I’ve been married too long. WOMEN CANNOT GIVE OR TAKE DIRECTIONS IN A CLEAR, LOGICAL MANNER.

There, I said it.

When a man gives you directions over the phone, he will say "You go exactly 5.7 miles northeast, past Keebler’s Grocery, which is a two-story wooden structure with green shutters and a 1998 dark blue Ford F-150 parked approximately six feet from the front door, and when you pass the Fourth Inclusive Assembly of God church on the left–a brick building which has a cemetery with 92 graves and one under renovation across the road–you will see a County Road 108 sign on your right just past the cemetery. Turn right onto that road, which would be due east, and travel 6.8 miles to where the pavement ends and gravel begins. You’ll see two houses on your left. The first one has nineteen shingles missing. That’s not ours. We live in the second one. It’s a 1,800 square foot building with white aluminum siding. There will be 3.7 dogs in a pen, and exactly fourteen chickens in the yard."

If this man’s wife were to give you directions over the phone, she’d say "Go past the grocery store, I forget the name but you can’t miss it. You keep driving and go past a church. I think it’s the only one after the grocery store, but I’m not positive. Anyhow, either just before or just after you get to the church, you turn down this gravel road and our place is just down that road. It’s not far at all. Like I said, you can’t miss it." Those all-important specifics like north or south are not there. She doesn’t even mention the dogs or the chickens. And if you were to ask her whether you should turn right or left past the church, she’d tell you, "Let me see, uh, I think that would be right ... NO, LEFT! When I’m coming from my sister’s house, it’s always left." If you are a man, those directions will not inspire confidence. The frightening thing is that if this woman gives your wife those very same fuzzy directions, your wife will intuitively know exactly how to get to that elusive destination. When you ask your wife, in the seat next to you, which way the woman on the phone told her to turn, she’ll say "She didn’t say, but I know it’s right."
Cooking is another area where women navigate by the seat of their panties, so to speak. My wife often has me put two or three potatoes into the microwave to bake them. When I first became the official potato microwaver, I’d ask her "How long?" Now, she’d microwaved potatoes herself thousands of times, but her answer was always the same: "I don’t know; you’ll just have to keep checking them." Checking them, of course, involved opening the door and poking them with a fork. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that it only took me a little while to figure out that three medium-sized potatoes covered in plastic wrap took about five minutes in our microwave, and two potatoes took three minutes. But again, that’s specificity, and women don’t like it. It takes all the magic out of cooking, I guess.

Not long ago I found something in the grocery’s frozen food section that looked good to me. It was one of those Skillet Sensations bags, filled with "Savory Chicken and Rice." I took it home, planning to add some sausage and mushrooms and make a real gumbo-type treat for myself, and for anybody else in the family who would give it a try.

The directions said to cook it on high heat for 3 minutes, stir, and then continue cooking on medium heat for 9-11 minutes, stirring frequently. I’m no fool; I know that when you’re reading cooking directions, 9-11 minutes means you split the difference and make it 10 minutes. My problem was with the "stirring frequently" comment. "Hey Marilyn," I shouted, "how often should I stir this stuff?"

"This is your project," she shouted back from the den. "Just follow the directions."

"I am," I replied. "It says to ‘stir frequently.’ What exactly does that mean?"

"It means to stir it frequently, so it doesn’t stick to the skillet."

To a seasoned (no pun intended) cook, the meaning of "frequently" in those directions may have been obvious, but to me it meant nothing. I cook something on the stove maybe once every six months, so "frequently" could well mean once every 9-11 minutes. Or it could mean once every 10 seconds. I flipped a coin, and stirred my chicken and rice once every thirty seconds. Vigorously. I figured you couldn’t be too careful.

After my ten minutes were up and my arm was very tired, I called Marilyn and told her the gumbo was done. She checked it out. "No it isn’t," she said. "You’ll have to cook it some more." She was not specific as to how long I needed to cook it, but she did indicate that my excessively frequent stirring had something to do with why it wasn’t done yet. To be specific, we had to cook it for another five minutes.

Next week I’ll give you Marilyn’s explanation of the difference between a "dash" of salt and a "fistful" of salt, and what "I’ll be ready in a minute" really means to her. If you want specifics, it’ll be a really long column, unlike this one, which contains exactly 1,087 words, not counting the title.