For The Record

I have to set something straight. I know I whine about Mark shopping just for the sake of shopping. I complain about the fact that he drives like it's 1905, and the automobile is some kind of mysterious contraption that he can't figure out. Yes, he has turned our place into one of those clutter filled homes that people laugh at on that Hoarders show. He squeaks when he talks, and squawks when he's arguing. Mark leaves bottles, doors, and drawers open. He cannot seem to figure out that you need to make as much money as you spend, and that I‘m not an ATM. Despite all those things, and the little stories I write about his foibles, I do care about him.

Let's face it, I'm spoiled. No matter what else I say about him, Mark is a great cook. Monday night he made lobster tail, with lobster ravioli in newburg sauce. It was damn good, and tonight he's making jambalaya. The aroma has already spread throughout the house. Anybody who has eaten here can attest to the fact that the skinny guy can cook.

I love my mom, but growing up we did not know of such foods. Mom had to cook for eleven children and had no time for experimentation. That road only led to sneers, tears, and my refusal to eat. My dining experiences were so unsophisticated as a child, that I considered the high school cafeteria food to be gourmet fare. In fact right up until the time I met Mark, I still considered Lancers Wine as good stuff, and fried calamari the height of good eats. Don’t get me wrong, I still cherish the crap I ate before. I crave White Castle hamburgers, and on more than one occasion I’ve scarfed down cold pizza for breakfast while Mark snoozed. I just don’t want to go back to those things as my only options. Yes, that skinny little man sure can cook, and this fat man loves him for it.