A wonderful thing happened. My husband started cooking.
The change came about a month ago. It began with breakfast. While I dressed for work he’d slip into the kitchen and brew a pot of our favorite organic coffee and construct a delicate egg white omelet with spinach and goat cheese. When I emerged from the whir of my early morning rituals—hair drying, make up application, multiple outfit changes—I’d find a folded cloth napkin, a perfectly doctored coffee, and a plate of comforting food waiting for me. On mornings when our window of time together was brief, he’d surprise me with a thick slice of bread dripping with melted butter and apricot jelly. I barely had time to notice he had perfected the careful balance of sweet and savory in the fruit smoothies he’d slip to me as I headed out the door.
I started to see a pattern of culinary devotion as he began adding lunches to his repertoire. Rather than visit our usual neighborhood lunch spot, he’d serve us decadent open-faced turkey burgers he grilled that were draped in a blanket of melted cheese or a thick slice of over-ripe persimmon. He’d peel an orange and have it waiting for us when we found ourselves at that inevitable point of the meal when we started to crave something sweet.
Then came dinners. I marveled at his grilled fish on a bed of Israeli couscous with thinly sliced lemons. On another night, he sautéed perfect squares of halibut with a spiced rub and a spicy yogurt sauce with fresh mint. Then there was the time he roasted a whole bird he bought at the farmers market with muddled fennel seeds and thyme.
After those meals his kisses never tasted sweeter.
With my husband at the helm of our kitchen, I’ve begun to relish the stacks of dirty mixing bowls or the skillet that needs a good soak. Because with every food-stained plate comes a piece of the story of what he learned in the kitchen.
I didn’t think it was possible, but every culinary tale makes me love him a little more. Continue reading “Kitchen Love Letters”