A Short Work of Food Fiction: My Husband

I am on the deck, sitting and staring out at the pearl of a moon. Spanish olive trees sway in the distance and for a moment, I think I hear them whisper soft songs of yesterday. My husband is in the kitchen, humming to himself, the tune, I do not know. It's comforting having him here again, in my life that is. I think that I was ill without him, that somehow having him here, cooking us supper and humming that tune had brought back the essence to my life. We have been married for 40 years, a lifetime for some. There have been hard times. Times where I thought that our marriage was a mistake. There have been times when his drinking led us to marriage counseling. Times when I had been tempted to have a fling with the silver haired Adonis that lived three houses down from ours. There have been good times too. The birth of our daughter, the long walks on the beach in the evening. Laughter in the shade of our garden and the comfort of one another's arms.

 There was a time when I thought these good times would never return, never grace us with their presence. Last year my husband left me. He said that he needed time to think about his mortality. Time to find himself. I told him he was having another midlife crisis. He said I was probably right, but that did not change the situation. He went to some island in the Pacific. He ate coconuts and sent me postcards of aqua blue beaches and emerald green shores. I sulked. I spent my days watching "The Bold and the Beautiful," and ate quarts of chocolate ice cream. My girlfriends said to leave him. My mother said to give him time. "Men need their caves. Let him have his cave Dear," she would sniffle over the phone and promptly start to fuss about her garden. I listened to my mother and threw myself into my work. I went out with the girls and drank wine on Sundays.

My husband called me on a Wednesday. He sounded rested and happy. He asked how I was doing and told me he loved me. I listened as he told me about his surf lessons, how the sun had tanned his skin, how he had lost 8 pounds eating fresh fish and guavas. He also told me he was learning to cook. " Learning to cook?" I had asked surprised. My husband never cooked anything besides toast and eggs our entire marriage. He explained that he discovered this new hobby in my absence. " You always cooked for us Yvonne," he reminded me. We got off of the phone.

My husband was gone for three months before he returned to me. I picked him up from the airport and wore my best dress. He looked good and I told him so. He smelled of sand, salt and island and tasted of tobacco and something sweet when I kissed him hello. We went home. We made love. As we lay in the bed, I felt angry. Angry that he had left me, but happy that he was back. A strange unsettling combination. "I am sorry," he said as he studied my confused face. Then he got out of bed and proceeded to the kitchen naked.

The aromas that greeted me later that evening were warm, reactive and captivating. Chili oils, gingers, and lemon grass danced in the kitchen as delicately as a ballet. My husband cooked for me. He cooked a meal finer than anything I had ever made for him. We ate in silence, slowly as if this meal was our last. At the conclusion of of grilled chicken, jasmine rice with saffron, ginger lemon grass soup, and coconut tapioca, I spoke. "Thank you." He spoke. "I will never leave you again."

Tonight, as I admire the full moon, I hear him humming. I hear him chopping and stirring and tossing things. I close my eyes and picture the expression on his face. Lips pursed, eyebrows slightly knitted and head cocked slightly to the left. Occasionally he smiles at his genius, revealing deep dimples. Other times he curses as he accidentally burns the tips of his fingers. He is my husband. He is Tom.