But the heart-shaped toast taught me a lesson. My husband didn’t want a perfect meal. All he desired was a little nutrition and some quality time with his wife. He just needed to know that I wanted take care of him, whether that meant sandwiches or steak.
I still don’t cook every night, but I am trying to increase my frequency and decrease my self-imposed expectations. Hamburger Helper really does make a great meal.
And Ryan is doing his part, too. Last Valentine’s Day we were too busy to go out to eat. He brought home dinner that night—a pizza, shaped like a heart.
A seasoned perspective…
Deborah Raney, married 33 years
We hadn’t been married more than a few weeks when my husband spoke the words that wives through the ages have come to dread. I’d made a batch of oatmeal raisin cookies—Ken’s favorite—and waited, beaming, for him to praise my efforts.
Instead, I got a wrinkled brow and a helpful suggestion: "This isn’t the way my mom makes them. You should call and get her recipe."
Grrrr.
To be fair, I knew what I was getting into long before I walked the aisle with my dear hubby. During his first meal at my parents’ house, he lifted a bowl of salad my mother had prepared, took a whiff, wrinkled his nose and passed it on. I was mortified. But when I brought it up later that evening, Ken informed me that he was a very picky eater and he doubted if that would ever change. In other words, "This is who I am. Love me or leave me."
Well, love him I did, and it didn’t take long for me to decide that Ken had plenty of wonderful qualities to negate this deficit. But I’ll admit I’ve had to remind myself of just what those are more than once over the years.
I love to try new recipes and experiment with unusual ingredients, but because of Ken’s pickiness, I am a very frustrated gourmet. I believe I’ve gone above any wifely call of duty each time I’ve deleted the nuts from my favorite recipes, pureed his spaghetti sauce or salsa to rid them of the dreaded tomato "chunks," or picked the "gross purple stuff" out of his salad greens. I’ve forgone the pleasures of watermelon and cauliflower for Ken’s sake, and prepare pasta salad and potato salad (or anything else that contains mustard) only for church dinners.
On the other hand, it’s a concession on Ken’s part that he’ll even eat a salad. And he has mellowed over the years, and even humored me a bit by letting me switch him over to 2% milk from the whole milk he grew up on. Of course, the switch had to be done gradually and on the sly, slowing refilling a carton labeled whole milk with the despised 2%, until his unsuspecting taste buds could no longer discern the difference.
