Last night, my husband shared with me what he touted as "the best anniversary gift ever" that he'd planned to give to me. He said it would've been the greatest. He even had my parents in on the planning. But it didn't work out. I begged and pleaded and twisted his arm, almost literally, and he finally gave in.
What what what what was it?! I wondered.
He said, "I was going to bake you a cake."
And I laughed.
Admit it, you laughed too, right? It's not that I thought he couldn't do it, but he was just so all-out pleased with himself over an idea that I considered, well, not exactly in the realm of all-time best presents, all things considered.
Then he explained.
"I was going to bake you our wedding cake."
And then I wanted to cry.
He and my mom had hatched up a plan to contact "Julie the cake lady" and torture the recipe out of her. Spice cake with maple frosting. Best cake I've ever had, especially when you consider the source. Julie wasn't exactly the woman baking wedding cakes for the stars, what with her chain smoking and early 1970s-era home furnishings and quirky down-home chatter. We liked her for her uniqueness; we loved her for her cake; we adored her for the memories.
They never were able to get hold of her. For starters, it's tough when you don't have a last name to search with and "cake lady" gets you nowhere when calling information. Even when my dad dug up an old business card, the accompanying phone number rang and rang with no answer or voice mail message. Wherever she is, I hope she's well or at least at peace.
I hope I can make up for my momentary lapse into laughter. Bordering on guffaws, I hate to admit. Because that "almost" present was just about the sweetest thing I've ever received.
This morning, we exchanged gifts. I gave him a giclee print of a vintage bicycle poster and a classic cycling novel by Tim Krabbé. And I wouldn't blame my own Tim for being a bit of a crab after my seemingly ungrateful behavior.
He handed me a white cube box, wrapped in purple and green curly ribbon -- plum and sage, our wedding colors, again a wonderful, unexpected touch. And a sweet card with a black and white picture of a little boy and girl sharing a kiss. Again, I admit, I blew it. I forgot to get him a card.
I unwrapped the present and held it up with gentle hands to study its beauty. It was a piece of pottery, which, he revealed, is the traditional gift for eighth anniversaries. From the local artisans gallery, the small, delicate bowl was handmade with cream-colored clay and handpainted sage-colored leaf designs. Breathtaking.
Just like you, Tim. You take my breath away. You amaze me. You surprise me. You amuse me. You tease me. You fight with me (occasionally). You forgive me. You want me. You tolerate me. You "get" me.
Even after eight years of marriage, 12 years together, I am still in awe of that.
You are my best friend, my treasured partner in this wild game called life, and I am lucky beyond measure.
I love you. Always.
What what what what was it?! I wondered.
He said, "I was going to bake you a cake."
And I laughed.
Admit it, you laughed too, right? It's not that I thought he couldn't do it, but he was just so all-out pleased with himself over an idea that I considered, well, not exactly in the realm of all-time best presents, all things considered.
Then he explained.
"I was going to bake you our wedding cake."
And then I wanted to cry.
He and my mom had hatched up a plan to contact "Julie the cake lady" and torture the recipe out of her. Spice cake with maple frosting. Best cake I've ever had, especially when you consider the source. Julie wasn't exactly the woman baking wedding cakes for the stars, what with her chain smoking and early 1970s-era home furnishings and quirky down-home chatter. We liked her for her uniqueness; we loved her for her cake; we adored her for the memories.
They never were able to get hold of her. For starters, it's tough when you don't have a last name to search with and "cake lady" gets you nowhere when calling information. Even when my dad dug up an old business card, the accompanying phone number rang and rang with no answer or voice mail message. Wherever she is, I hope she's well or at least at peace.
I hope I can make up for my momentary lapse into laughter. Bordering on guffaws, I hate to admit. Because that "almost" present was just about the sweetest thing I've ever received.
This morning, we exchanged gifts. I gave him a giclee print of a vintage bicycle poster and a classic cycling novel by Tim Krabbé. And I wouldn't blame my own Tim for being a bit of a crab after my seemingly ungrateful behavior.
He handed me a white cube box, wrapped in purple and green curly ribbon -- plum and sage, our wedding colors, again a wonderful, unexpected touch. And a sweet card with a black and white picture of a little boy and girl sharing a kiss. Again, I admit, I blew it. I forgot to get him a card.
I unwrapped the present and held it up with gentle hands to study its beauty. It was a piece of pottery, which, he revealed, is the traditional gift for eighth anniversaries. From the local artisans gallery, the small, delicate bowl was handmade with cream-colored clay and handpainted sage-colored leaf designs. Breathtaking.
Just like you, Tim. You take my breath away. You amaze me. You surprise me. You amuse me. You tease me. You fight with me (occasionally). You forgive me. You want me. You tolerate me. You "get" me.
Even after eight years of marriage, 12 years together, I am still in awe of that.
You are my best friend, my treasured partner in this wild game called life, and I am lucky beyond measure.
I love you. Always.
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