Table for Two

Know what my favorite food is?

The kind someone else makes when I'm going on six weeks of being sick.

Mark called me at work to tell me he was going to take care of dinner. I was overjoyed at the news yet skeptical of the outcome. I love my husband dearly but he's never been mistaken for an Iron Chef. He's typically limited to one-pan meals, as multitasking isn't his best trait either.

When we were first dating he tried to seduce me with his Famous Chicken. Famous, I guess, for the copious amounts of stale oregano used to encrust it. I was head over heels, though, so I chewed and smiled.

And took over the bulk of the cooking duties.

Determined not to boss his ass around the kitchen disrupt his mojo, I stepped aside and refrained from expressing judgment over his methodology. I did inquire as to what was smoking, but mostly because it was really cold outside and if he set the house on fire we'd have had to go out there.

I now humbly apologize to you all for mocking - and possibly doubting - him. As the smoke cleared, he presented me with an omelette smothered in sauteed onions, shrooms and peppers, with steak and cheese tucked inside.

It tasted like love.

(Actually, it tasted like snot, but everything does right now, so I can't pin that one on him.)