My Vegetable Romance

The first conversation I ever had with my husband was about teenage promiscuity. He came to choir practice and stayed behind. As he sat on the piano bench, facing me with that expression of lively interest that I have come to love, I felt that I could spill anything and it wouldn't faze him. So naturally, I challenged this by talking about my desire to start a home for unwed mothers someday, and about my philosophies surrounding teenage promiscuity and substance abuse.

He held up his end pretty well. And then he reciprocated by telling me stories of his childhood, of his parents, of growing up homeschooled on a farm. He peered over my shoulder one time when I was playing a game of Settlers with some freinds. He stayed after Choir practice on an occasional Sunday and practiced Chopin on the piano that my sisters and I rented together.

My father is a pianist. He plays with the perfect precision of a mathematician, stopping and going over and over a rough spot until it's perfect before he moves on. My husband plays with the feeling of an artist. He takes the rough with the smooth, moving through the bars with fluidity, unashamed of the rise and fall of emotion within a piece. Both men are amazing pianists in their own right.

One time I sat in a chair near the piano and watched his fingers on the keys. Afterward, he turned around on the piano bench and we talked. We ended up sitting on opposite ends of the couch. He was telling me a story about his father, when he was a young boy. I sat and listened and looked at him, his wiry frame and well-shaped shoulders, his tie untied and hanging down over his chest, his white church shirt untucked. He had his legs up on the couch, relaxing as he related this experience. In that moment, I became aware of a sudden desire-- it tickled the edge of my consciousness. It horrified me, and so I pushed it to the back of my mind.

About a month later, I got a cold. And an ear infection. They never went away. At a ward social, I mentioned this to him, without knowing that he was an enthusiast in the area of natural remedies. That evening he came over and gave me a little sandwich bag full of echinacea, vitamin C and olive leaf pills. He also fixed my modem.

He came over every day that week to see how I was doing. That was his excuse. That friday night, I was on edge-- I knew that he typically spent the evening with friends. Would he invite me? Or was he just being nice to me, extending a freindly helping hand?

He called me and invited me over. I sat next to him on the couch. We cuddled.

And the rest is history.

All that summer, he brought me tomatoes from his backyard apartment garden. A new bag each week, full of red-and-gold tomatoes. He brought me apples from the tree in his backyard. I sat in the bishops office and watched as he nibbled down leaves of Romaine lettuce and chuckled to myself.

Last year, on our first anniversary, he prepared a picnic. It included a salad of various greens, tortellini, grapes, and sangria which we both have a fond nostalgia for.

Today I packed him two sandwiches-- avocado, tomatoes, red peppers, lettuce, sprouts on whole wheat bread. I added cantaloupe, and salad of course.

And, at his request, I put in a chocolate cupcake, frosted with fudge frosting, sprinkled liberally with those little flower-decor sprinkles. It was leftover from our little daughter's first birthday party yesterday.

The tomato plants in our backyard garden grow a little taller each day.