For the past 11 years of marriage, a constant force is you in the kitchen, JD. You cook to celebrate, to console, to give a piece of your heart to people sitting at the table.
Most evenings you'll play a record and chop spices to the cadence of a soulful beat. You mix your carefully selected vegetables in imported olive oil (can you taste the fields of Tuscany, you ask with hopes that I do). You grill meat the butcher saved especially for you. And when you plate the meal, you take time to garnish with the eye of a painter. Balance. Color. Care.
People come to our house with hopes they find you in the kitchen. They sit at the counter and watch you in your element. Sweat on your brow, laughter between sips of wine.
A couple days ago, I tried waking you up, but, instead, you lifted the blanket and I crawled into bed. We planned the day, we listed errands, we itemized work tasks. Then you leaned into my ear and whispered: “Your love is like a bowl of warm kale soup for my soul.”
This may sound like like utter silliness to someone, but to me it felt like the WORLD. You are quiet and thoughtful. You save your words. I, on the other hand, spill my sentences like a ripped bag of rice.
After 11 years of marriage, we understand those differences.
That my love could still feel like warmth, sustenance, and comfort after all this time is the highest compliment from the heart of a chef.
For this and so much more, thank you. I'm proud to be your wife. Happy anniversary, my love.
