Every Friday we hear a different woman blogger’s perspective on “What makes a man exceptional?” This week Christine Sisson does the honors. Enjoy.–cg
Every love story is unique, and the saga that was my husband’s and my courtship is no more special. But it certainly had its cinematic twists. (And if nothing else, it makes for a great story to be told at cocktail parties, a few glasses of red wine in.)
What began with a false start—a single rose nearly 10 years ago—morphed into a three-year friendship. There were several more attempts at more along the way, including an illicit kiss at a dark jazz club in New York, but timing was not on our side. I was dating someone else; he was “just a friend”: There were too many strikes against the relationship.
I can’t pinpoint what changed. Sometimes I romanticize the shift, attributing it to a particular series of emails he wrote me that made me see him in a different light. Or perhaps I was jealous that he was falling for someone else that same summer. Whatever the reason, things just suddenly harmonized, made sense. By graduation day, June 2003, we were both all in—no more false starts or fears that we’d ruin the friendship.
My husband is still my best friend, and I could wax poetic about what makes him exceptional, almost to a cringe-worthy point. You know how women in cliché chick flicks or sitcoms complain about their husbands or boyfriends? He never calls. He’s with his poker buddies again. He controls the remote, doesn’t clean, etc. I’m not claiming my husband is perfect, but he’s just not—nor has he ever been—that guy.
And, to boot, he cooks.
As I look back over the past 10 years, I can measure our relationship in lovingly prepared meals. (That the way to my heart is through good food perhaps makes me the cliché.) Before we were dating, he made one of his girlfriends a full vegan spread. This impressed me (heck, I think he lived in a frat house then), but this girl didn’t appreciate the gesture. That relationship didn’t last long. I would tell my mom and friends and anyone who would listen, “He’s so nice. He just needs to find the right girl.” It sounds odd now, but I never imagined that girl would be me.
Junior year of college, he invited me over for an impromptu homemade lunch of grilled chicken and vegetables. It seems so insignificant—we were just friends, remember—but he had planted a seed, whether I chose to acknowledge it or not. As our relationship progressed, so did the food: French toast in bed (following the most heinous hangover in memory), mussels bathed in butter (New Year’s Eve), crab legs and from-scratch sushi and maki (birthday). There was something for every occasion, and he became increasingly ambitious.
I tried to return the favor. (A botched attempt at lamb gyros didn’t get me very far.) So cooking just kind of became his thing. And who was I to complain?
Today, he’s not a by-the-books chef; he prefers to experiment (potatoes drizzled with a black bean soup reduction? Why not?), and cooking truly makes him happy. But when he brings me breakfast in bed on regular Sunday mornings, or serves an amuse-bouche of four pieces of Aussie licorice (my all-time favorite candy), I realize he must enjoy the nurturing aspect of it, too.
This past year he made huge strides. Culinary adventures included catering a baby shower for my sister and 30 women. Keep in mind, this lunacy was entirely his idea. In our kitchen, clad in a sweaty Bears shirt and cargo shorts, he fried artichokes, baked figs and wielded a knife and pan with panache while the ladies sipped sangria.
On Valentine’s Day, he disappeared for what seemed like hours. When he returned, and toiled in the kitchen for another hour or two, my patience waned. Silly me. Turns out, he had gone to Greektown—a hike for us—to procure the authentic ingredients needed to replicate a meal we ate on our honeymoon in Crete. He even made the flaky, sweet almond cookies. (Cue to me feeling like an idiot for being impatient.)
And then, after all that, he did the dishes.
Maybe he really is perfect. If not perfect, then certainly exceptional.
Christine Sisson blogs about design, fashion and found objects at christinesisson.wordpress.com.
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
Yes. Yes. Yes.
The man makes the food; the food makes the man!