The Apple of My Eye

Yesterday I took the day off and Wayne and I went apple picking in the Virginia countryside. For years this has been my autumn tradition, a ritual that I regard as the highlight of the year. Nothing compares to the brilliant fall foliage, the crisp cool air, and the snap of an apple as it is severed from its branch. We picked a bushel and a half, enough for several pies and some apple crisp. The majority, however, will be cooked down, sweetened with brown sugar and cinnamon, and canned for the winter.

True to form, Wayne is so excited about our impending canning session. He called me from the road to ask if we have enough jars and lids, as he wants to be fully prepared for this culinary task. He then asked if I noticed that he had placed the apples on our screened porch. I had, and told him that was a good place, in the cool air and out of our beagles' reach. But it was his next statement that had me frantically trying to stifle my laughter: "I washed them!" he proclaimed, a touch of pride in his voice. "I washed each apple and dried it, so they're clean and ready for the canner!"

Washed and dried a bushel and a half of apples? Who would do such a thing? Certainly not the men in my past, nor would any of my women friends; for that matter, neither would I. The apples will be peeled and cored prior to their demise in the canning pot, thus eliminating the need to wash them. Simply put, Wayne did this because he thought it would please me, that it would make me happy to find the apples shiny and clean. He did it out of love, an agape love that puts my needs before his own. I try to do the same for him, though he definitely has the lead.

Wayne's unemployment has given birth to a new persona, and I like what I see. "By the way," he said before hanging up the phone. "Did you see your library?" I hurried downstairs to find my bibliophile sanctuary neat and orderly, every book in its proper place, the furniture polished, and the leather recliner placed perfectly in front of the fireplace. "It looks great!" I told him. "Thank you so much!"

Simple acts from a man more complex than I ever realized, a complexity that is indiscernible to others. I know differently, for I know The Man Behind the Apron.

Love Among the Pumpkins

As my car rounded the corner of our street I saw my husband's Yaris parked in front of the house. The hatch was open and inside sat a large pumpkin. I broke into a broad grin, as I knew that pumpkin was for me. Wayne knew I wanted one to decorate our front step, but due to three consecutive rainy weekends we had not been able to visit our favorite pumpkin patch.

I entered the house. There on the kitchen counter was a second pumpkin, this one larger than the first. Wayne was giving it a bath of sorts, meticulously washing off the dirt and then drying it with paper towels. He was startled to see me. "You're home early!" he exclaimed. "I went to my union office and passed this place that was selling pumpkins, two for the price of one. I was going to arrange them out front and surprise you."

I threw my arms around him and held him close, so thankful for this man who loves me so completely, who knows that autumn is my favorite season, one I deem incomplete without pumpkins adorning the house. "Thank you, " I whispered, grateful for such a priceless act of kindness from this man I was fortunate enough to marry, and who made himself vulnerable in allowing me to see a little more of the Man Behind the Apron.

Pink Slip and Peppercorns

When my husband, Wayne, came home on October 2, 2009 and told me he had been laid off from his job as an electrician, my first reactions were fear and anger. He had worked for the same company for fifteen years and was a faithful employee. We thought we were safe from the ravages of the economic downturn. We were wrong.

After taking inventory of our finances, we realized that the situation was not dire. I make a good salary as a math teacher. In addition, Wayne has a part-time job on weekends, and he applied for unemployment. We can still pay the mortgage, utilities, auto expenses, and put food on the table. We eliminated luxuries such as attending performances at the Kennedy Center, traveling, and eating out. Pay-Per-View is far less expensive than movie theater tickets; add to that some microwaved popcorn, a cozy fire, and our comfortable couch, and we can enjoy a movie at home for $4.50.

All of this pales, however, in comparison to Wayne's discovery that he actually enjoys being a house-husband and that he is quite adept at it. He has always liked to cook, but now he has time to pour over our expansive collection of cookbooks and spend hours preparing delicious yet healthy low fat meals. I have come home to turkey chili, butternut squash soup sprinkled with walnuts, Weight Watcher's chicken and noodle casserole, and a very tasty meatloaf made with ground turkey. An added bonus is that my husband always cleans up after himself, so I've never entered the kitchen to find it looking like the aftermath of a tornado. He also straightens up the house, cleans the bathrooms, and empties the trash. I am truly blessed.

Watching my husband discover a new side of himself is as much an adventure for me as it is for him. Each day, as I drive home from a day of teaching, I wonder what culinary delight awaits me, and I look forward to seeing my husband's joy as he serves me a meal seasoned heavily with love, and reveals yet another facet of the Man Behind the Apron.