Meaty Dinners and Other Acts of Love

Some days, I find a bemusing satisfaction in being married. 

      Who, other than the content wife, would brave an overcrowded bus wielding an overstuffed tortoise shell of a backpack, to then take an overfilled train smelling of hot exasperation just to be able to cook dinner for her husband?

This girl. 

This nutty, clearly out of her mind girl.

      After another long and unhappily draining day, I thought it'd be a terrific idea to cook dinner for Alex and me. The boy had just returned from California on a red-eye and went straight into a ten-hour workday. My, that smells of a wicked appetite! 

      Alas, we have no real food in the entire apartment (canned goods stockpiled for Hurricane Sandy are sole occupants in the pantry) hence my adventure to the supermarket during the evening commute. 

      For the car-less in Boston on a Tuesday, that meant waiting in the 30-degree night then inserting myself into one max-capacity transportation after another, simply to acquire a chunk of meat. 

      You see, Alex is a carnivore. His favorite meals all have one red meat or another as a primary ingredient. Though I tend toward pescatarianism, when I feel especially affectionate toward my undernourished husband, slaughtering a lamb or two is no big deal. 

Only love can convince me to handle this slime.

      Of course, of course, I try my best to prophesy the wonders of killing plants instead animals and Alex usually lends a dutiful ear. However, sometimes a love for a man means love for his meat. Rather, love for his love for his meat. 

Compromise smells of bloody flesh but often tastes pretty good once cooked.

      In the end, Alex arrived home late, the well-orchestrated, deliciously seasoned dinner was cold and haplessly limp. But I still earned points in the great book of wifely deeds! And that, unlike tonight's leftovers, should last at least a couple weeks.