Stepping from the bathroom, he grabbed his shirt and headed for the kitchen. The light over the dining room table gave renewed illumination as he tucked in his shirt tail and adjusted the belt in his slacks. He was ready for the day, save gulping down his breakfast and hitting the street for work.
As he entered the cramped simple dining area he spied her; the love of his life, his fair skinned auburn haired beauty, his Bride of over 4 years. She stood near the stove stirring something over a burner. A warm smile crept to his face as he seated himself at the table. She was always up mornings to see him off. He adored watching her moving around the duplex, whether it was straightening up, cleaning, reading a book, or cooking. And for meals, well, he anxiously anticipated her next culinary creation.
He pondered, “What will breakfast be this time? Maybe she’ll have pancakes, or waffles, or even bacon and eggs?” but there were no frying smells emanating from the stove. “Must be something in the oven.” he thought, but the small confinement of the preparation area wasn’t stuffy. With her back toward him, her robe clad slender physique hid what was being prepared, but no matter. Whatever it was, it would be worth the wait, as long as he wasn’t late for work!
She was a great cook. She had faithfully served meals since their engagement. Once at her parents’ home before the wedding, he recalled, she’d asked him if he liked potato cakes. Star-struck and clueless, he ignorantly responded, “I guess so.”
She followed up with, “What do you like with them?”
Continuing in blissful ignorance, he replied, “With maple syrup I guess, if you have it.”
Without another word, and a questioning glance over her shoulder, she returned to the kitchen. He found out as the dishes were passed around the table that potato cakes were butter fried mashed potato patties.
His daydream was suddenly interrupted. “Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked in her lilting voice.
“Sure! Always.” he remarked with a big grin.
His eyes looked over the table. His Bible lay a short distance from him. Perhaps he could get in a quick read for inspiration before heading for the door.
“Toast is coming too,” she added.
As he reached for the book, she walked to where he was seated, quickly placed a bowl in front of him, and hurriedly returned to the toaster. She made the best homemade bread he’d ever tasted. His mouth began to water. He watched as she cut the slices from the loaf and placed them in the slots. His gaze returned to the bowl and book as he heard her press the handle down and the spring catch.
His eager eyes set on the coveted prize as his tummy shouted, “Breakfast at last!” But it wasn’t what he had anticipated; not even close. As he studied the contents of the bowl, conciliatory thoughts raced through his mind. “She sacrifices so much for me. She could sleep in and make me fix my own breakfast, but she doesn’t. And she’s made my sack lunches every day since our honeymoon, always with a little note hidden somewhere inside announcing the number of days we’ve been married. What a wonderful wife! But . . .”
Time seemed to stand still as his suspicions solidified. Yep, it was the same thing in the bowl; oatmeal. She had fixed oatmeal so many times before and he never said a word. He just dutifully ate it and thanked her. He recalled his Mom fixing a big pot of oatmeal on cold winter days for her five hungry children. It was quick, easy, and economical for a family with a limited income. He had never liked it. Even then the slimy gelatinous mass was hard to swallow, but if he loaded it with raisins and sugar he could survive.
As she put the finishing touches to his lunch, he knew he had to tell her, but how? His thoughts turned to dread. With a dish towel in one hand, she turned and placed the mid-day meal in the usual spot at the end of the counter. He could easily spot and grab it as he ran out the door. Now might just be a good time.
She casually looked over at him. She noticed he hadn’t touched his spoon, not to mention the offering she’d placed before him. The steam from the old fashioned cooked oats was now barely visible as it continued to cool. Growing concerned, she asked, “Honey, are you alright?”
Still deep in thought, he continued to stare down at the bowl. The mass occupying the vessel seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It appeared to be staring back at him in bold defiance as if daring him to take a bite.
Fighting to maintain some semblance of composure, he opened his mouth, but instead of words, his gag reflex took over. A strained gulp erupted! “Hhuupp . . . I’m fine.” he burbled sheepishly.
“Is there something wrong? Do you need something else?” she queried. With a perplexed look, she stepped closer to the table. Generously, she offered, “I can put on a bit more honey if you want some.”
Those four years of hypocrisy had caught up with him. Desiring only to be a loving, considerate husband, he NEVER complained when she served him anything, even oatmeal. He truly loved the birthday oatmeal cakes with the creamy coconut-pecan frosting she made and her chewy pecan-raisin oatmeal cookies were a delight. In fact, he enjoyed almost anything else made with oats, but NOT cooked oatmeal. She desired only to please her husband. She continually sacrificed her desires for his, and he knew it.
The culinary confrontation between those dreaded oats and his knotting stomach climaxed. With all the compassion and courage he could muster, he exclaimed, “Darling, I know how much you love me and love cooking for me, and I appreciate ALL you do. And I know how much you love oatmeal.” Hesitating, he confessed, “But I HATE oatmeal!”
She froze in place. Her tender hands clasped the dish towel and slowly began wringing it. Then, she kindly but firmly spoke, “I love oatmeal? I don’t even like oatmeal, but YOU do! You always eat oatmeal.”
He now felt pangs of guilt for never communicating his dislike. In a penitent tone he spoke, “Well, I ate it because you fixed it, not because I liked it,” and then added, “and because I love you.”
With an understanding smile, she turned toward the stove once more, and with some resignation in her voice, offered an alternative, “I’ll fry you an egg to go with your toast and I’ll eat the oatmeal.”
Humbled, he looked down at his formidable foe, grabbed the spoon and attacked the gelatinous glob, as he conceded “No, honey, I’ll eat it.” . . . and so he did.
By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2017 January
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