The love of my life, plus food

No, no. Not George Clooney, although the actual love of my life has given me carte blanche to bang Mr. Clooney should the opportunity ever arise. Keep that in mind, Clooney. If you cross my path, you’re mine.

The love of my life is, of course, my dear husband, Paul. As far as I know, he doesn’t know that I’m writing this, but he will soon enough. [He’s got some idea though, because I told him to fuck off and stop reading over my shoulder.]

I thought I’d grab the time to do this while he is distractedly planning his menu for this evening’s repast: gumbo. And yes, per my whining and whimpering (yes, whimpering like an abandoned puppy), it will contain oysters even though they are not called for in the recipe. I can hear him down in the kitchen: singing and humming to his iPod’s “music for cooking” playlist, with accompaniment provided by clanging pans, the glassy clatter of prep bowls, clinking measuring spoons and the clunk of a cutting board on the counter. Soon comes the plunking of the knives as he lays waste to the “holy trinity” of onion, celery and bell pepper, readying his mise-en-place.

Cooking: the ultimate expression of love.

Anyone can take you out to dinner, but it takes a truly special person to dice, slice, mince, chop, roux, roast, boil, bake, simmer, flambe and fry for you. And for years, I was the “truly special person” down in the kitchen.

Nothing says lovin’ like the possibility of losing part of a finger to a good, sharp knife. Or, worse, a dull knife. Fortunately for him, the only one of us who causes digital harm on a regular basis is . . . me. In my cookbook, no home-cooked meal is complete until a) I’ve added enough black pepper to make myself sneeze and b) I’ve cut myself at least once.

Paul and I have been together – as of June 13th – for 15 years. In December, we’ll have been married for 14. Nothing like deciding pretty quickly that someone is “the one”, huh? Hey, when you know, you know. And we knew.

We’ve been through quite a bit together. I’ve seen him through unemployment, infections, holiday hospitalizations, surgeries, colon cancer and chemotherapy, and through the death of his mother.

He’s loved me fat and not-so-fat. He’s been there through employment and an unexpectedly lengthy unemployment. Through Sunday headaches and a heart condition. He was with me in the ER when they had to “control-alt-delete” my heart, stopping it for 6 seconds, to get my tachycardia to stop. He was there as I mourned the death of my father and when I wept over the euthanizing of my sweet cat, Clio, and my beloved 3-legged dog, Ginger.

But still, few things compare to cooking for someone. Honesty to goodness, sweaty, in-the-kitchen-for-hours-using-something-other-than-the-microwave cooking. The aromas of all good things slowly climbing the stairs and tickling one’s nostrils. The salivating anticipation as the evening’s delight hits the bowl or plate.

For 14 years, he promised to cook for me. But apart from Mrs. Grass’s chicken noodle soup and a frozen waffle, he demurred.

My “Chef Paul”

Last spring, he got bitten by the cooking bug and got bitten hard. He jumped in with both feet and went for it lox, shrimp stock and toque. I’m not quite sure what actually brought it on, and I’m not asking for details. I’m sure it had something to do with 24-hour access to both Food Network and the Cooking Channel. I must confess that I’m doing all I can to encourage it: new spices, manly aprons, cool or kitschy kitchen implements, cookbooks out his wazoo.

His niche is creole/cajun/southern and he has embraced it fiercely. As the song says, “Jambalaya, crawfish pie, file gumbo.” He’s made those. Son of a gun, we’ve had big gastronomic fun.

Look at those fat bivalves! Get in my belly!

Not every attempt has ended in success, and he will be the first to admit it. There was the great Roux-Gone-Wrong of 2010. And the Fried Chicken Fiasco of 2011. But that’s part of the challenge – and the fun – of cooking. He has nothing but hatred for his culinary failures, but his joy at his successes is contagious.

If there’s one thing I can never get enough of, it’s seeing him happy. Many times, I can take credit for it. But watching him beaming as he poses with something he’s proud of make me happy, too.

He had me at “hello.”

He won me with “I’ll wait for you”.

He married me with “I do.”

And he keeps me going with “What do you want for dinner?”

I love this man. How could I not?