I Choose Dumplings

For over a month, I pestered my husband. Well I know I pester him a lot more than that. But for the past month, I specifically pestered him to make me a homemade seafood dinner on my birthday. He flat out refused. To me, him making me seafood—a food group he downright despises—would mean he loves me. He cares for me. His sacrifice of cooking such a food, would mean he unselfishly loves me and would do anything for me.

Andy has known since the beginning of our relationship that the way to my heart is through food. I just love food. All food. It’s disgusting really. But he learned and memorized—before we had even become official—exactly how I order at every fast food place. A task that only my mother could do. When he first recited to me how I would get a burrito with no tomato, extra sauce, and xyz at Taco Bell and then go on to tell me how I order a burger at In-n-Out and then what I would get at McDonalds, I knew two things: 1, I eat out way to much; and 2, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone who took notice of these little details of my life.

Back to today, I was deeply offended that he would not make me seafood. Didn’t he love me, I asked myself. Then, last week, on a night that I thought I was coming down with the flu and had come home early from work and everything… he called to say he was making homemade chicken and dumpling soup. Because I was sick. Because I needed him to take care of me. Because he loves me. And even after all my ranting about some dumb birthday dinner, and after he worked late at a photo shoot, and after running to the store and getting home after 7, he made me dinner.

No, I do not need a seafood dinner on my birthday. But I do need a husband who will stick by me even when I make selfish demands. I need a husband who will take care of me in sickness and in health. I need Andy.

So whatever he chooses to make for my birthday dinner… I choose dumplings.

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