Lesson #21: The little things matter

I blame society for my sometimes misconstrued view of romance.  We're surrounded by music, movies, and books that twist the idea of romance into something much bigger than it normally is.  Sure, I would love to have songs written about me, be flown to Paris for a romantic getaway, receive flowers every day, the whole shebang.  All of that is a tad unrealistic.  Being married has helped me come to terms with that.

The first reason is that we don't have the money to go out and do romantic things  The second and main reason is because Lyndon just isn't that kind of romantic.  He's not the guy who sweeps you off your feet and showers you with diamonds.  His romance is in his words, not his actions.  Last night, however, was a wonderful surprise.

He made us dinner and then took me out for ice cream afterwards.  It was nothing wildly romantic to most people, but it was one of the most wonderful evenings I've had since we got married.  Well...until he started playing video games, but I can't hold that against him.

Sometimes it's the quiet and simple acts of love that matter the most.

Lesson #20: Boys smell

I may have grown up around three sisters and the most interaction I had with the male gender when I was little was my awesome Dad, but I've always known that boys smell.  It's something you learn in Girl 101: boys smell and have cooties.  I must have skipped the day when we learned that boys never stop smelling.

Lyndon spent about two weeks after his "two weeks away" working at the armory and such.  Since it was late July/early August weather, there was a lot of sweating going on during the day.  I didn't give that a second thought, so when he came home he threw his uniform in with the rest of the dirty laundry.  One morning, I awoke to a strange scent coming out of our closet.  What I soon discovered was that his work clothes had stunk up the place.  Granted, it was my fault that I had put off doing laundry, but in my defense we didn't have any quarters.

After enduring a nice session of gagging at the waves of terrible drifting out of the closet, I had to sort out all of the clothes.  It was like digging for buried treasure and that treasure was rotten garbage.  Some of it was still wet!  I mean, come on.  I located all work clothes and some of our stuff that had been contaminated because of close proximity and threw them in plastic bags.  They sat outside until it was time to wash so as not to spread to the entire apartment.

New rule around here: any clothes that are wet from sweat are not allowed to socialize with the rest of the dirty clothes.  They have to go and sit in a time out in another room until dry.

Lesson #19: How do you even pronounce latke?

Gardeners who are incredibly skilled in their craft are known to have "green thumbs".  That doesn't make much sense to me but oh well.  What color of thumb would a gourmet chef have?  Whatever their color might be, I can assure you that my thumbs are that color but faded and dull at best.

I follow a recipe and don't divulge from the path.  The meals that I've made so far have been incredibly simple, so I haven't completely botched one.  Last night, however, was a different story.  Last night I attempted to make latkes.  The best way to put it is that they're fancy hashbrowns.  In Rachel Ray's 30 Minute Comfort Foods cookbook, they looked delicious and simple.  I was about to discover how wrong I was.

Putting all the ingredients together was fairly simple.  Getting them into mounds so they could be fried in patties was the problem.  I couldn't get one to stay together no matter what I did.  Half of them fell apart when they were put in the pan, leaving floaties in the oil that ended up burnt.  All of those had to be pulled out to make room, so I had a nice, giant pile of failed latkes on the stove.  What I was able to save I couldn't even get to cook all the way through.

The end result was funny looking latkes that tasted okay last night but a weird smell that lingers in the apartment today.