The Man Makes Dinner

I should have known after all his sneakiness that something was up for our first Valentine's Day. However, I am sadly gullible. Someone should make me a gullible hat, and then a matching shirt that says, "Be nice, it's no fun, when she can't fight back."

He said we were going somewhere for a nice dinner. I went shopping for a gorgeous dress. I piled my curled hair on my head, put on make-up, donned spikey black heels, and waited with breathless anticipation (or I waited with some other bosom-heaving cliché). He showed up in a tie. That's how you know it's serious.

As we drove he said he had to pick up something from home. This is the point when those not blessed with an over active gullibility, would have raised a finger and declared triumphantly "Ah ha!" I merely smiled, refolded my fingers into knots and dug them further into my lap. At his house, Justin asked if I wanted to go in with him. Again, those cleverer type folk would have asked a snarky, "Why?" with arms folded over there chest and a knowing eyebrow quirk.

I innocently murmured, "Sure,"  and fumbled with the door handle. Thankfully, Justin is a gentleman, he showed that troublesome door handle who was boss.

He pulled open the door to his home, and ushered me in. The first thing that hit me was the scent of flowers. A lot of flowers. There were four vases of roses and baby's breath in ever imaginable color. There was a bit of an apology on his part. He hoped I wasn't disappointed that he was making dinner. He hoped I didn't feel the dress, make up, and heels were a waste.

Because I dress up for the restaurant? Silly boy.

Like an explorer in the heart of the Amazon, I parted the tangle of roses to see two  places set, candles were lit, and wine was poured. He made Cajun-spiced salmon, herbed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. It was delicious. And romantic. And amazing. And, well, whatever other positive adjectives human kind has or will invent for studly men who can cook and look great in ties.

That night was the first time we said "I love you." It was supposed to be the night of our first kiss, however, a few nights earlier, when attempting to kiss my cheek in the dark, Justin "missed." And I'll let him have his delusion because it was sufficiently fairytale.

Eight years later... I have the flu. I'm achy, and sniffling, and sore throaty, and vomity. Romantic. With yakking.

However, the man is still a stud. While I read stories to the kids he made dinner.

 

 

It is salmon with garlic orange crème sauce, herbed sweet potatoes, and grilled asparagus. And there were candles.

He made the candles this afternoon while I napped. Out of limbs he pruned off our trees.

Who does that?

Why did this man marry me?

He is still a sweet, romantic, stud. Eight years later I still mean every, "I love you," with my whole heart.

Although this romantic Valentine's dinner had a few extra guests at the table:



I traded roses for babies.
Which is cool, I guess.