I may have mentioned that I was cold, chilled to the bone. I may have let that slip, more than once. I’m not sure how else to explain why Beloved decided to start a fire for me. A fire in my mouth. Because who doesn’t want to have a fire in her mouth when she feels cold?
Oh, yes, this girl. That’s who. She doesn’t want to have to drink a whole cow’s worth of milk just to tame the fire in her mouth. Heaven knows what that fire is going to be like in her tummy or elsewhere as time goes by. I mean some people might like that kind of thing. It might be a sign of love for some. But for this girl…well no not exactly.
Now don’t get me wrong. I love the fact he cooked for me. I love that he made something different from the usual meat and potatoes. I rather enjoyed the rice, chicken and veggies. And I don’t mind me a bit of spice. To be fair I like more spice than he does. But there comes a point, usually the point where your taste-buds are burnt off, that the spice is too much.
The lyrics, “Baby don’t hurt me, any more” comes to mind even know hours after the meal of fire was consumed. What also comes to mind is the lines “you always hurt the ones you love the most”. So maybe that’s where Beloved was going with this. Right now though, my mouth is not a burning ring of fire. Nor is the rest of my body feeling hot.
It was a soup day of sorts. Cool, damp weather had come back and I wanted soup. I was also not in the position to spend a ton of time in the kitchen. I was hopeful I could spend some time in the kitchen but the weather, lupus and lack of sleep decided that this wasn’t really going to happen.
A short cut could be the slow cooker, but the prep was too much for my hands. A can of soup? Sure I suppose, but not really what I was looking for.
Thankfully a friend stopped by with exactly the thing I wanted most, homemade soup. Delicious, tasty soup. Soup is a bit like a hug from the inside out. And what’s better than a hug from a dear friend who took the time to make soup and share it with me?
So in the end I got what I wanted, but more than that. I got the most amazing gift, the touch of a hug when I didn’t realize I needed it and yet was exactly what I needed! To me that is the most perfect ingredient to any course of a meal because nothing tastes as delicious as love.
Someone told me that the way you show your lover what she/he means to you changes as you get older. When we are young, this person said, we tend to do the grand, showy things for love. Flowers, hearts, chocolates and all that. As we get older, this person assured me that we tend to find other ways, more subtle ways to make those same declarations.
And I’m going with that. Because a few years ago I would have never cleaned fresh eel for Beloved and considered it a sign of love and affection. Given his age, I’m sure he will also see this as a huge gesture of love. If he doesn’t, I will have to educate him otherwise. Probably with an eel up the side of his head!
Not only is Beloved a better cook, but he is the one who does the things like cleaning eels. Except he wasn’t home and a friend brought in fresh eels. I don’t even eat eels, but Beloved loves eel pie. Prior to him in my life I had no idea that this was a thing. Now I won’t make the eel pie because I don’t know how. But I’ve cleaned his eels and they are awaiting his return home. As are the heads and insides of said eels. Because surely that all screams out how much I love him. Okay so maybe it also screams out how much I’m done with the eels. Oh well. It’s the thought that counts right? Right?
Beloved was up to his eyeballs in apples. Well okay not really up to his eyeballs, it just seemed at way since he was cleaning and cutting them for baking and freezing. Me, well let’s just say I was supervising. And doing some minor quality control sampling.
A few days earlier he had been doing a host of baking with plums. And when he walked in earlier today with two boxes of peaches I was tickled pink. I may have a thing for peaches. I also have lupus, which is flaring up something dreadful and therefore I’m sort of out action. Other than sampling. For quality of course!
If you were to listen to him, Beloved would have you believe that he was suffering something awful as he worked his way through the apples. But the truth is, he loves it. He loves to bake and cook. And he enjoys sharing his end results, even if they turn out to be less than stellar. Not that this happens all that often.
So up to his eyeballs in apples really isn’t the torture you might think he was experiencing. As a matter of fact, he was in his place of happiness, and I knew it based on his singing opera as he worked. And I was in my happy place watching him be happy. And sampling of course!
“It’s nothing really,” I said as the well-meaning nurse clucked over the injury. It really wasn’t that big of a deal on the scale of big deals in my life. It doesn’t mean it didn’t warrant stitches, but stitches are nothing in my world. Not when you’ve had tubes, hoses and are now seeking new organs. Nope, stitches are really nothing.
But of course this lovely nurse didn’t know that. She was thinking I was worried about the amount of blood that I was losing and perhaps even concerned about a scar or two. I gathered that from the way she said that it probably wouldn’t amount to much of anything down the road for people to see. I grinned and told her that scars were sexy. Scars said that you have lived a life, an interesting life. Interesting enough to leave marks on your body. She laughed and told me that someone would be in immediately to stitch it up.
I wondered what she thought after she closed the door. Did she think I was crazy for saying it was nothing when clearly she, as a medical professional, thought that a knife wound requiring more than thirty stitches as not “nothing”. Knives slip, especially when you aren’t paying attention and the item you are cutting is wet and slippery. And the dog is jumping at your back. Stuff happens. Fast.
The doctor came in, stitched it up, gave me directions to look after it and then said he didn’t want to see me in the room again. You’d think I was a frequent flyer or something at this trauma room. I’m not. It just happens that last time I was here, Beloved had managed a lovely deep hand wound as well. And I was fascinated then, as I was now, with the stitches going in and such. So I guess I left an impression.
Shame about the roasted veggie salad that won’t be made now because frankly there was too much blood on stuff to save it and right now I’m a bit off of tomatoes!
Beloved works odd hours. Mostly because he works more than one job. These odd hours leads to some interesting obstacles when it comes to meal planning, not to mention other logistics.
We try to do mass cooking when he’s around. And by we I mean him. He tries to sort out several meals that can keep for a few days. He also tries to “repurpose” meat etc. so he can make multiple meals after. As for me, I tend to pass judgment on what he is planning. (In fairness, he is the better cook out of the two of us and he’s not a fan of my creations for the most part.)
The problem with this approach is finding storage room for everything. And once we get past that hurdle, the next big hurdle he faces is actually eating the food days later. Because what sounded delicious on Sunday is totally not what he wants on Tuesday. So he kind of hastily eats it on Tuesday and then lists after something more tasteful that day.
Enter a quick stop for more than coffee, such as a package of nuts or cake if the mood strikes. And sometimes, if the disappointment was large enough, it becomes a package of nuts and cake. Or maybe two pieces of cake. At which point he arrives home between occupations and bemoans his food choice.
And around and around we go with this. I’m not much better in that I tend to not be a fan of leftovers. So this means he is stuck with his food that seemed brilliant only days before. But each week we do this same dance. And each week he swears it will be different.
It was one of hose days, the kind where you just want to stay inside and curl up with a book, a nice cup,of coffee and let the dog curl up on your feet. Of course if you are Beloved, you do none of these things. Instead you let me curl up with a book while you take over the kitchen.
Beloved spent over 12 hours in the kitchen today preparing delicious meals for the freezer as well as other side of be consumed now. Oh and snacks. He made snacks and cookie before he cleaned the kitchen. He took inventory of the kitchen and created a grocery list. He packaged, wrapped and stored food.
When he was done, he dropped down beside met with a sigh. He pulled me close again t his chest and just sat there, holding me while we watched out the window. To him it was a near perfect day, and to be honest I am not going to complain either. I mean he created delicious food while I read. He cleaned while I made notes. And while he held me, I rested safe and secure against his chest. It was, in fact, a perfect day for arms. Beloved’s arms.