There are many, many reasons why I love my husband, but this just might be the shiny one at the top of the pile:

The man can make an omelette! Just look!

I'm too impatient for the omelette-making trade. I'd much rather spend my time making banana-blueberry cakes with crumbly oatmeal toping. My breakfasts, aside from the occasional quiche, take the lower, less artful road of the commingled, jumbled, disheveled scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits.

My, but it DOES sound like a delicacy when I put it just that way!

Often, I delude myself into believing that I can make an omelette. I start out just fine...I can add eggs to a pan like nobody's business. Then, my downfall: I add the cheese and fresh vegetables, the aromatic bliss clouding my senses. I hurriedly reach for the spatula, racing to fold my enticing egg sandwich. Sadly, it is always too early to fold. The omelette is ruined. I make short work of the semi-set eggs, leading them the way of the scrambled-eggs-with-cheese-and-vegetable-bits dish that I've mastered so well.

Saturday night, it was imperative to me that I bake a cake. I was driven—possessed by my desire to prove my baking prowess, tame my inner sweet tooth. I would not be preparing this cake from a box. The time of reckoning had arrived.

I found a recipe from one of my healthy cookbooks—a banana-blueberry cake with crumbly oatmeal topping. My goodness, if that doesn't cry out and dare you to bake than NOTHING will! Step one was completed. My homemade, non boxed cake now had a name.

As I recall, the hour had grown late. Miles, fussy in his hunger, required dinner before my ingredients-run to the grocery store. We dined noisily on our lasagna, purring our contentment. The joy invested in our meal depleted our energy bank, and we lay on the couch, watching The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

When finally we departed, the temperature had dropped markedly, the cold rain drizzled. We stayed the course. The omen was lost on us. The cake must be made, it must be made that night.

We went to the nearest grocery store. Unfortunately, that store had not regrouped from its Thanksgiving pie-maker's rush, and they were out of brown sugar. No. Brown. Sugar. Even more importantly, no brown sugar alternatives!

I was ready to abandon my mission. I had failed. I was a sorry excuse for a non-boxed cake baker. Dejected, we checked out with our incomplete list, trudging outside...outside into the rain, into the cold. It was no better than I deserved.

I hung my head low, choking back the tears. I forced visions of fuzzy kittens to chase away my cake ineptitude. Looking up, I discover that Miles has driven us to another grocery store. He would not allow me to fail, he would see that this cake was prepared.

Success! We found our ingredients! Yaaaaay ingredients! What is a cake without ingredients?—Air! Now air, while having its advantages, isn't quite the nirvana that is a fine, non-boxed cake.

. . .

Baking is fun! Banana cake batter is tasty! Blueberries make banana batter purple! I now have an affinity for eating all things purple!

Seriously though, it turned out better than I imagined, and definitely better than Miles had imagined. I called him over to taste a portion, and he arrived with that adorably irritating clothespin clamped over his nose. I will make banana-blueberry cake all the time! I will make it and make it until we're sick of eating it! I will make it as long as there are bananas and blueberries to be found!

I have found my gift!—my calling! I am a blueberry-banana cake baker! I shall go forth, spreading the banana-blueberriness unto all the world!

In the warehouse, playing catch with the nerf football:

We're on fire. Boy, we've caught the ball, what? 6, maybe 7, times in a row? Gahhhhhh-ley!—NFL, here we come! I toss the ball. It spirals, drops low. It's zooming toward Miles at about mid-shin. He squats low, his baseball days gearing him for the catch.

A foreign sound pierces the air. Miles stares dumbstruck, the football hurtling his face.

I remain perfectly unaware that anything out of the ordinary has occurred. I'm used to Miles not catching footballs (maybe not as much as he is used to MY not catching footballs, but that's neither here nor there), after all.

I see his expression—a study of awe, and not a little vexation. "Hon, I uh....feel a draft."

I think we should do an exposé on the matter...perhaps "Khakis: They're not all that they seam." Or, "Khakis: The final front-tear."

Miles is deeply disturbed. I think it will be a good while before he wears pants again.

I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.
I will not eat my weight in mashed potatoes this year.

I feel his expression is a very turkey-esque expression for a turkey to have during the Thanksgiving season.

I "drew" him almost a month ago during a tidal wave of boredom. Proudly, feeling like a child who colored inside the lines for the first time, I showed Miles and Jason my creation. They really have mastered that eye-rolling trick.

They appreciate me...deep, deep down inside. Maybe it's so deep that they don't even realize that the appreciation is there...but oh boy!—is it ever!

Still, I am fond of my turkey, in all of his anxious glory. I feel the need to offer him a leather couch, listen to his concerns, then inquire,

"Interesting. Veddy Interesting. Do you feel this way about all side dishes, or just stuffing?"

We seem to have fallen in a chasm of time wherein we have no beginning, and we will have no end. My father drinks coffee throughout the day. He drinks it black. Black and strong. It's the Norwegian in him, all 100% of it. My grandfather was the same way, yet I never pursued a liaison with coffee while living at home. College introduced me to Java, but it was of the programming language sort. This Java was not so enjoyable first thing in the morning.

Then, I moved in with Miles. Miles was not a coffee drinker. Our roommate and friend was not a coffee drinker either—but she had a coffeemaker. She picked up a carton of mocha creamer one day, and we made coffee to sip while watching The Golden Girls. We both loved watching The Golden Girls. (It seems as though every major female friendship I've garnered has held a special place for The Golden Girls.) If we were to mimic adulthood for one morning, barring all unsavory possibilities, it might as well be during The Golden Girls.

We went through 2 pots in an hour. I fell hard. It was love; I knew the signs.

It became our morning ritual, and one I looked forward to as soon as I awoke. I would shoo Miles out of the house so our coffee time could commence. Those mornings of being melancholy with his absence were a thing of the past now. I had coffee, coffee that would always be there for me when I needed it. Miles laughed at my giddy puppy love. He couldn't understand. He thought I was just being silly, as some Lauras are wont to be.

Our relationship progressed to the point where I felt the need to acquire a larger coffee mug. I saddled up with a 16-ouncer. It was a gift from Miles, a means to cloak his increasing jealousy.

The months passed, the seasons stayed the same. (I live in a state that has summer and a sort-of prolonged spring) Miles and I would be moving into our own home soon—away from the roommate; away from the coffeemaker.

I was consumed by my grief. WHY!? Why, after discovering something so precious did we have to part ways?

My beloved Miles discovered me at my lowest point late one night. I was in the kitchen downstairs while everyone was sound asleep upstairs. Eyes bloodshot, tears unchecked, nose sniffling, I sang brokenly,

Thank you for being a friend,

Traveled down the road and back again,

Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant.


And if you through a party,

Invited everyone you ever knew,

You would see, the biggest gift would be from me,

And the card attached would say, "Thank you for being a friend."

Miles rushed to me, unshed tears transforming his eyes into glistening pools. He comforted me then. "We'll get a coffeemaker for the new place. I promise."

He was totally marriage material.