a train wreck and a kind husband

Last weekend, we received some sweet potatoes in our Bountiful Basket.  Not being the biggest sweet potato lovers around here, I was excited to see a recipe the next day for Sweet Potato Quesadillas.  For some reason (it's all a little hazy to me now), these looked like a great idea.  After all, I had a small grundle of these little orange delights waiting to be stirred into a masterpiece.  Why I didn't just settle on something a bit more mainstream, such as sweet potato french fries, is now a little unclear, but at the time I was sure these would be a hit. 

Feeling most efficient, I had purchased all the necessary ingredients days before, baked up the taters earlier that afternoon, and mashed them into a frenzy by 4:00.  Oh, the organization!  When 6:00 rolled around, I was in the kitchen, sauteing red pepper and onion, stirring in cilantro and blue cheese, all the while I had a pot of asparagus steaming on the back burner.  It all looked so healthy, it did- and I do so strive for healthy dinners.  This one was sure to top the cake. 

Except. 

The moment came when I had to stir the pepper/onion mixture in.  Then the cheese, salt, and cilantro.  It looked very mushy.  Very mushy, indeed.  At this point I remembered exactly what it is that Courtney detests about sweet potatoes, pumpkin, or any of the orange, fleshy vegetables.  Mushy, mushy, mushy.  Mushy makes him gag. 

Suddenly, this whole enterprise seemed like a bad idea.  A very bad idea.

"But she who submitted the recipe didn't like sweet potatoes either!" I consoled myself.  "And she said they were the very best quesadillas she had ever eaten!"  Maybe there was hope.  Maybe the tortillas along with the grilling made this concoction into a tasty, splendid, creative masterpiece. 

All of this was running through my slightly worried mind when Courtney walked in.  As he eyed my work, he looked at me with a one-eyebrow-lifted-I'm-a-little-concerned kind of look.  I glared at him, warning him to keep his mouth quiet.  After all, if the girls heard even one negative word about dinner coming from his mouth, it would all be over.  I was walking on thin ice as it was.  He paused for a minute, and then said quietly, "That is triggering my gag reflex just by looking at it."

I knew it. 

But!  I wasn't going to give in just yet!  If this was going to be a train wreck, I was going to ride it on through until the end.  While almost every part of me was screaming, "THIS IS GOING TO BE HORRIBLE!,"  there was still a tiny, stubborn, little sliver of hope that we would all be surprised, even amazed by my gourmet-ness. 

We all sat down as the girls started to make all sorts of gagging, yucky face kind of noises and complaints.  True to my glare, Courtney didn't say a word.  He calmly waited for the prayer, and then, with my eyes boring down on him, began to eat.  To his credit, he maintained a straight face, eating not only one, but all two of the quesadillas he had been served.  Meanwhile, I started in on mine, only to get partway through before I set my first triangle of orange mushiness down, on the verge of gagging. 

All the while, Courtney waited, no doubt wondering what to do next.  I sat, looking from him to the girls, who unlike their dad, were doing nothing to hide their disgust. 

I couldn't help it.  I burst out with, "But it looked so good in the picture!!!!" 

With that, we all started laughing.  It was all the permission Courtney needed.  The girls giggled and Courtney and I roared uncontrollably, me crying with laughter and everyone else mostly relieved that they didn't need to try to choke this disaster down anymore.  It had been a train wreck, alright. What did I do? I jumped off at the first chance, while poor Courtney willed himself through to the grizzly end.



Suddenly, I felt very tired.  And discouraged.  My tears of laughter metamorphosed into plain old tears.  Tired, overwhelmed, and about 99% hormonal, I went in and laid on my bed.  Soon, Courtney was there, kneeling by my bed with a kind, concerned look on his face.  He wiped away my tears and suggested I go to bed.  Even though it was only 7:30.  With that, he closed the door and took on our little world all by himself, not making me feel one bit guilty for taking a hot, bubble bath and drifting off to sleep while he managed to concoct a more edible dinner, homework, and the bedtime routine as a one-man show.

I married a good man. 

In just a few days, it will be our anniversary.  While we've only been married for thirteen years, we've been best friends for another six plus.  This has given me ample time to come to the conclusion that I'm pretty sure there is nothing better than being married to a kind person.  I've never been more in love.  Even better?  I'm almost positive that he's quite taken with me too.  After all, he ate a sweet potato quesadilla for me. 




If that ain't love, I don't know what is.

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*I should clarify that I have since looked over the above-mentioned recipe and accompanying picture several times.  If you do, I am wondering if you agree that it does, in fact look delicious!  Doesn't it?  What's more, I'm sure it is.  I'm not meaning to be demeaning, if you know what I mean.  I'm sure you throw another cook into the kitchen, along with some avid sweet potato lovers and you've got a masterpiece.  Anyway. . .

PS.  Last night I went the safe route.  Puffy pancakes, dripping in butter, topped with vanilla yogurt and strawberries.  Everyone had seconds.  And for the record, Courtney gave me a thumbs up on this one.