Leavened Bread
Or, "Our Love Rises"
On Monday, my wife made the best bread that I’ve ever had.
It wasn’t traditional bread. It wasn’t a traditional white or some healthy-tasting whole wheat that I had to pretend to like.
She made a flatbread, a naan-inspired leaven masterpiece that was so perfect it brought me to tears. The exterior, browned by our cast-iron skillet, held garlic butter in a warm embrace while the interior, simultaneously airy while somewhat pancake-like, floated across our tongues. It was exquisite, and I told her that I would fight several men to have this bread.
“Aww, thanks.” was her reply.
Thanks? THANKS? This bread was worthy of being served to kings. Am I her King?
No. I’m a guy who lucked into marrying an intense, amazing, gifted woman nearly 13 years ago.
13 years ago, I was no prize. I was trying to survive in a new career, in a new city, working for a company that treated overwork and borderline alcoholism like badges of honor. Our first date, in fact, I had to cancel because I ended up having to work late. Thankfully, she looked past that transgression.
We had a fast courtship, if people still call it that. We met in August 2012, and were married in July 2013. In the months between, we spent nearly every day together, with her making delicious food, and me eating everything she made. She did my laundry, even though we did not live together.
We showed each other our warts early, and with trepidation. Soon we discovered that our warts came together like a zipper on a well-loved jacket. Her need to plan countered my spontaneity. My lackadaisical attitude countered her intensity. I was losing my hair, first to genetics and then to the razor; her hair stayed a beautiful straw-color. I fell in love with this girl, this woman. She knew the way to my heart, and to a department store where I could buy new pants to accommodate the tummy that she was doing her part to grow on the way.
After we got married, we found that we didn’t have a lot of money. She made sure our plates were covered with inexpensive pastas, chicken, pork. I made sure I ate, and made sure I made her laugh to hold up my end of the bargain. Her specialty back then was a “meat and 3”; a protein (usually chicken), cooked on a skillet with a bit of water, and 3 canned or frozen vegetables. We didn’t have much, clearly. But we had each other, our vows, and a lifetime to find more warts.
We are older now, and about to celebrate 13 years of marriage, of commitment to each other. My hair is a distant memory, only remembered when bits of stubble emerge from an unshaven scalp. Her hair started turning a beautiful gray (she dyes her hair, against my pleadings).
Together, we have navigated health crises, parenthood, unemployment. Depression. Never once has she faltered, driving me to appointments or simply providing a gentle forehead kiss when she knows I need one.
In turn, I love her the best way I know how, by making her laugh and reaching up to get high-up things that she can’t reach.
She still feeds me with the same stubborn intensity that she caught me with. Pork has largely given way to beef, and turkey has joined chicken in the protein rotation, though more sophisticated and healthier preparations have taken priority. She’s experimented with breads, and makes the best cornbread I’ve ever had.
And now she makes the best bread I’ve ever had, of any kind.
I’m so grateful that our love for each other rises as well.