My husband left me this morning for his first true love. I knew he was leaving. He made no secret of the fact that he was packing to go. I saw him as he spent the night before packing his gifts to bring to his real passion. First, he got his suitcase. Some may refer to it as a tackle box, but I know better. Then, he filled it with the jewelry he would need to attract his love. Some call them lures. All I know is that they were pretty -- bright pinks and purples with feathers, gold hooks and silver spoons. He then spent hours winding line on his reel, which apparently is serious work necessary to catch his big one. It was too time-consuming to read his child a bedtime story because he was so involved in this job.
He was at least open about the fact he was leaving again. He had everything spread out on the kitchen floor as he ignored the overflowing garbage can and clogged sink to painstakingly choose just the right lures and line.
Then he left at 5 a.m., with the biggest grin on his face in anticpation of his date. I couldn't help but think that I have to scream and nag to get him up at 8 a.m. to come to church with us, but he will rise before dawn just to put a line in the water.
My husband eventually returned to me, hours later, having been rejected this time by his love. Other times he has left, he has returned with her smells and with gifts of scaly objects dangling from a large hook. These presents he gives to me, asking me to cook these prizes.
Sigh.
Anyone have a good fish recipe?
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