We had a potluck at church Sunday, and I was planning to make something. In my happiness at finally finishing cookies for the bazaar, I forgot the potluck.
In the middle of the night Saturday, I had an inspired idea. I would get up and make crock pot mashed potatoes with sour cream and cream cheese and chives, and all would be well.
I assumed Andrew had set his alarm for 7:30 a.m., but I’m not sure why. He usually sets the alarm, although I doubt he ever sets it that early for Sunday.
I was shocked when we didn’t wake up until 8:30. Church starts at 9:30, there was snow on the ground, and I desperately needed a shower.
There would be no potato-making this morning.
I was whining about this to Andrew, who helpfully said, “Why don’t we just bring chips?”
We had a bag of Kettle Chips in the cupboard, unopened, so this was a logical solution.
I was not in a logical mood, however.
“That’s what you do when you’re single,” I said.
Which was true.
Countless times as a broke singleton, I had spent my last pennies on a bag of chips so as not to show up empty-handed to a potluck.
But now I am married. We have a livable income. I did not need to bring chips.
I suggested stopping by the store. To which my husband replied, “Okay, then let’s not eat breakfast.”
I fumed over this comment in the shower, trying to figure out what he was getting at.
I knew the potluck was earlier than most, and I could see why we would skip lunch, but I needed breakfast. I figured this was his attempt at making sure I wasn’t having too many calories.
I have already given up coffee for the most part, but I still need some sort of fuel in the morning.
Was he trying to save money? Please. A bowl of cereal wasn’t going to kill us.
By the time I got dressed and dried my hair, it was 9:15, and I was more frustrated.
It was time to go. We wouldn’t have time to go to the store, much less down even the smallest breakfast.
I didn’t even want to go.
I grabbed the bag of chips and a Clif bar of Andrew’s that he has to help him get through long days at school.
But we got in the Jeep and Andrew, ever his sweet self, cleaned the windows of snow while I warmed up the car, it suddenly dawning on me when he was finished that I could have helped.
He got in and told me how he was thinking how blessed he was to have a woman who loved him and cared about him in the car, getting it warmed up and ready to go.
We split the Clif bar and hit the snowy streets.
Then I decided instead of being angry, I would ask him what he was thinking by wanting to deny me breakfast.
And, of course, there was logical thought that had nothing to do with me.
My husband gets hungrier when he’s only had a little than when he has nothing at all. He didn’t want to sit through church with his stomach growling, and he knew we didn’t have time for a full breakfast.
That was it.
I was being silly.
We enjoyed the potluck despite our meager contribution, and we had an even better time caroling at nursing home and the hospital.
We were reminded of how truly blessed we are to share our meals — and our lives — together.