Monday, October 8, 2012

one sunday morning

One Sunday morning we were out of milk.  So, my husband offered to make scrambled eggs, and I never turn down his scrambled eggs.  Oh no, they are delicious!  He told me to take my time getting ready, that he had it covered in the kitchen.

When I walked out primped and ready there he was, towel slung over his shoulder with his perfect scrambled eggs in the pan, cheese slowly melting over top.  There was music playing on the radio, jazz music (the Miles Davis Pandora station I would come to find out), and the table was set, nothing fancy but just right.   He knows how a set table makes my heart go pitter patter.  Its genetic.  He asked me what I wanted to drink and I said "hot chocolate," because really what other option is there, and then I threw in "and orange juice" just for good measure.

I sat down to a plate of toast and cinnamon sugar and he came to join me two plates of hot eggs in hand.  We said a prayer and then prompted by the sound of Miles in the background he proceeded recount a story about how his first semester in college he had signed up for a senior level jazz appreciation course.  Really, you?  My Spanish speaking, mountain man that has a permanent layer of dirt underneath his fingernails and listens to heavy metal whenever I am not around?  You wanted/want to be a jazz musician? 

I shouldn't have been surprised.  If there is anything that I have learned from my marriage to this man it is that he will always continue to surprise me.  But, I was surprised.  Surprised at his actual knowledge on the subject and the enthusiasm and fondness with which he reminisced about the class.  And then there was that moment when he said that he tried harder in that one class than any of his others because he enjoyed it so much (you see he wasn't much of a try-er in school, he was more like a win over the teachers with my charm and just get by kind of guy).  So, naturally I tested him and asked him any jazz related question that I could come up with, mostly only relating to Louis Armstrong, and boy did he show me.

All of this really only took place over the course of about 15 minutes as we quickly cleaned up and headed out the door to church.  But, oh those 15 minutes of falling in love again with a man who has more depth and enthusiasm for all aspects of life than anyone I have met, around my vase of dying roses and an empty plate of scrambled eggs and toast, those 15 minutes are what Sunday mornings without milk are meant to be.

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