marianaabdalahoward

  Last night had a sweet ending. No, not with steamy sex or a good indie flick. Way better than a candlelit dinner of mango chutney sea bass, or souffléd french fries, or a chocolate lava cake- yeah, you heard right. And this is the most ironic part for all of you who may be thinking that I am some high-class foodie… Taco Bell was invovled.

Driving the Volvo station wagon through a 55-degree evening of cloudless cobalt skies, John seemed absent-minded and almost irritated that I had denied him a bite of his baja-style chalupa. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get “secret ranchy-style” sauce on the car-seats, but it was my way of forcing him to eat with me when we got home. Waking up at 5:30 and plowing through 9 hours of work, 2 hours of homework, and some more hours of class was transforming John into a walking corpse, a non-participatory newlywed with hardly any energy left for brushing his teeth at night. I felt guilty for sleeping in two hours after he’d walk out into the dark morning, dirty every time I’d prepare myself a fancy little lunch and not save any for him, and sneaky for not telling him that I had spent a couple of hours at lunch with my telecommuting and self-employed friends. I know that I appeared to be a young little wife with a plush and breezy life to lots of people (oh! little do they know), and I felt as self-conscious about as if I had a giant mole growing on my eyelid.

This night though, I didn’t want to push my luck. My unemployed ass had actually left the house, for something more than just a walk to clear my thoughts (or instead, what happens on most walks, which is drowning my head in masochistic thoughts about my newly Zenned-out mother and my recently estranged serial dating dad- but we’ll save that for a later blog). John had suggested going for a little ride to Taco Bell. Okay, I said. Let’s go blow our arteries away, together.

I ordered the usual, a Crunchwrap Supreme with beans instead of meat and extra jalapeños. John ordered a slew of crap; Gordita, Chalupa, fresco burrito or whathaveyou.  We trucked on home in silence; John’s arms drooping around the wheel, my lap full of warm gooey fast food, and I wondered how the rest of the evening would go. Will John barge into our tiny living room and make a bee-line for the bedroom, where he’ll plop onto the bed and eat his faux Mexican junk goodies? And then fall asleep three minutes later, with strings of lettuce and cheese strewn about the sheets? Or will he sit with me? Just sit with me. . . for just ten minutes. At the kitchen table. In chairs.

We entered the incubating warmth of our 400 square-foot apartment, and John didn’t dart for the bedroom. Quickly, I grabbed two pretty plates from our newlywed china and plopped them onto the table. And then, the strangest thing happened: John set two wine glasses on the table, and grabbed the wine, and poured wine for two. For two! I usually drink by myself; very uplifting, and so mentally healthy. I couldn’t believe it, John never drinks wine, because John usually doesn’t like wine. I watched him and smiled at him, but I secretly considered that he may barf up his precious Taco Bell if he takes a sip.

It was more than I could ask for; my beer-drinking, couch-lounging, albeit hardworking and exhausted husband, was partaking in some fine junk food dining and experimental wining. And that was all I needed, I really think that’s all I need.

But John knew better. He knew what I really needed. I needed a little window, a tiny slit of opportunity, or attention, of time, to just vent. Vent about my rapidly aging grandmother, my crazy mother, my disappointing father, my balding cat, my boring afternoons sending resumes to online postings for jobs that are “virtual”, but maybe not even “real.” And he just listened. He just looked at me and listened. He listened until it turned into a lighthearted conversation with notes of satire and cheerfulness. He listened until I turned a serious, but distressing and poignant conversation, into something positive, simple, sweet. It really felt like we had suddenly gone from eating mediocre junk food to eating a homemade golden loaf of pound cake (with chocolate sauce). You can’t always have these moments, these moments that help you sleep soundly at night and help you empty your sould of the sour grapes you’ve accumulated at the pit of your stomach.

Pound cake is so simple, so quick to bake, and so delicious. It is a staple at the bake sale, a last resort for the weekly luncheon, a surprisingly decadent end to an ordinary day.

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