Spaghetti!

I was greeted at home this week by two pots on the stove. Scott had made spaghetti. I don't know why I was so elated: he does all the cooking in our home (score!), but it's never even been started when I walk in the door, much less completed. Furthermore, because his kitchen specialty is Italian, he never makes it or eats it at home. I knew the spaghetti was made to please me.

I clapped my hands and looked around the apartment, but Scott wasn't there. I dug my cell phone out of my bag.

"Hello?"

"You looooooooooove me!" I cheered. "Where are you?"

"I'm outside with Annoying Neighbor." (My term, not his.)

"You made spaghetti!" I cooed.

He laughed at my appreciation. "Well don't get too excited. It's just the jar stuff that my step-mom left us. It was the only thing we had in the apartment."

"But it was made by the time I got here. And it's spaghetti!" I chattered.

"I can't believe you're getting this worked up over something so small. It's no big deal, really."

But it was a big deal to me.

And when I came home the very next evening, I saw this:



And this:



He lit candles, moved the table from the wall, uncorked a bottle of wine, roasted a chicken, and prepared a salad and a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes. All waiting for me when I got home.

This time I danced and jumped while I clapped. "You love me! You love me!" I exclaimed.

"I thought I would really give you something to be excited about," he said. "And seeing the look on your face made it all worth it."