from the flickr photostream of rose lovering

On Valentine’s Day, Herb and I hosted a few close friends and their kiddos for a nice romantic dinner for six.  If dinner for six can be romantic.  And if you don’t mind a baby girl being passed around the table.  And three little kids building sky scrapers out of Herb’s vintage tinker toys in the living room.  And by living room, I really just mean the other half of the 400 square feet of open space that comprise our kitchen, dining area, and living room.

Despite all of the amazing, aphrodisiac-based recipes in the cookbook called Intercourses that I received at a wedding shower, all I could think of that week was chicken mole folded into enchiladas.  Something about the unexpected sweet punch of the dark chocolate in a spicy sauce and the understated presentation of delicious layers sounded, well, sexy.

And though I don’t know how many people left the dinner feeling amorous, it tasted mighty fine!  So fine, in fact, that I made another batch for dinner a few days later; making more than enough so we could have it at least twice.  On Saturday morning I was helping Herb make breakfast.   Only he was not interested in the sausage that I threw on the counter.  He had another plan in mind and was on a mission.  To my surprise, out came the other half of the chicken mole.  The chicken mole I had labored over.  The chicken mole that had, from start to finish, taken over an hour to prepare.  The chicken mole that was intended to be tucked away in the freezer, safe and sound and ready to be pulled back out on a night that I was too tired to make dinner.  This very same chicken mole had mistakenly been put in the refrigerator.  He began to heat it up in order to serve on top of his fried eggs.  I asked him to put the rest in the freezer for another meal.  He did.  And then, he pulled it out a second time.  He was still hungry.  He put more in the pan.  And then remarked that there would probably not be enough for another meal.

Now, most of you know where this is going, right?

I was so frustrated.  To the naked eye, this seems so silly.  It is just chicken.  It was going to be eaten at some point.  What was all the fuss about?  Sometimes, in the middle of an argument, I find myself asking the same question.  What IS all the fuss about?  What is really bothering me here?  Other times I loose my mind so fast that no such questions are pondered.  But on Saturday they were, and it was a case of feeling unheard.  Unimportant.  All I could think was that what I ask of him doesn’t matter.  That he disregarded the fact that I have recently tripled the amount of time I work, and that having extra food in the freezer was my way of managing the new schedule and stay sane.  What is funny about that, is that 85% of the time, my husband is a great listener.  He puts me at the top of his priority list as he makes choices about his day.  But during that other 15% of the time, when he eats my chicken, I feel so scared.  So alone.  I feel like my voice doesn’t matter.  I start to wonder if things have suddenly changed for good and my voice will never be held in high regard by him again.  Then I start to feel stuck in a marriage where I am not important.  All in a few minutes time.  All over a batch of chicken mole.

We talked about it.  I left the room.  I came back in.  I left again.  I cried a little bit.  I came back in.  Then Herb said, “I will make more.”  He said it in the heat of the moment.  It was hard to tell if he was trying to appease me or if he actually intended to do it.  But I thought “You BET you are making more, buddy!”

I oscillated all weekend between wanting him to follow through and make more chicken and feeling like a punitive, cranky wife who needs to get over herself and move on!  He seemed just a little surprised the next day when I mentioned we needed to run to the store for supplies, including chicken and a chocolate bar.  I am sure he was thinking, “What did I get myself into?  And why is she so cranky and punitive?”  So we took a lazy walk to breakfast and then the grocery store before coming home in the early afternoon.  After Herb spent the rest of the day wrestling with our broken dishwasher, I had no interest in pushing the chicken agenda.  In fact, I was prepared to let it go and put it in the freezer so I could make it another day.  I noticed my interest in “making him pay” had begun to wane.  The further I stepped back from the situation, the clearer a picture I had of him.  He was not just the guy who ate the chicken and left me feeling ignored and unimportant.  He was the guy who takes lazy walk with me and helps me lug groceries home.  He was the guy who knows how to fix our dishwasher and doesn’t make me feel bad about taking a long hot bath in the middle of the day while he has the thing pulled out in the middle of the kitchen, resting on it’s side.  In short, time allowed me to see him more clearly.

The next day, I arrived home around 8 AM from an early walk with my next door neighbor to find Herb flipping bacon AND preparing the chicken to be roasted!  I was pretty impressed.  And then we got into another argument (these things go in waves around our house).  Again, I was so hurt and angry.  Yet, something funny happened.  I started helping him with the chicken.  I answered his questions about what pot to use.  I chopped an onion.  I measured the oil.  I stirred the sauce.  He didn’t ask me to, I just started working.  All the while, I am thinking, “You shouldn’t be doing this.  How will he ever learn?  This isn’t punishment for him - it is punishment for you - he messed up and here YOU are cooking again!  You’re never going to make him hear you if you help him out like this.”  With every onion slice and stir of the sauce, I disregarded that voice.  The voice of fear.  The voice of contempt.  The voice of keeping score and placing blame.

Something I learned during our engagement is that fear and love do not co-exist.  And though I was hurt and sad and day dreaming about Herb moving out and having the house all to my own, I decided to choose love.  Not because I am a great person.  Or a superior wife.  Or find marriage easy.  (I mean, do you READ this blog?!?!)   But because as much as Herb and I hurt each other and drive each other crazy, there is the voice of love that lives in this house, guiding us and holding us during our most frustrating and fearful moments.  We know that voice as God’s voice. And sometimes God simply says, “Cara, shut up, don’t worry, and start cutting that onion!”