I know it’s a tradition reserved for people who’ve been married longer than five minutes, but Jeff and I agreed two minutes in to institute a weekly Date Night. Last weekend we saw “Cloverfield,” a movie that gave me motion sickness so intense I couldn’t look at the screen. I was left to close my eyes, bow my head, and pray that if The Lord would spare me the indignity of defiling Date Night by upchucking the boogie all over the texting hipsters in the seats in front of me, I would NEVER EAT BLUE CHEESE VINAIGRETTE AGAIN.
I am happy to report that He did not forsake me.
Last night for Date Night, Jeff and I decide to break out the pasta machine. We clear some space, scrub the table, and start making a well of flour and eggs, just like they do on Food TV. Only our eggs and flour refuse to come together. So we add eggs, curse, knead the dough, curse, double-check the recipe. Throw the mess into the Kitchen-Aid. And the result is a wad of dough that looks like a freshly removed tumor.
All I want to do is bury the dough tumor deep within the bowels of the trashcan. I feel like it’s my duty as a former National Honor Society member–to help keep the world free of imperfections. But Jeff insists on sticking to the recipe and letting the tumor rest for 30 minutes.
Apparently tumors need rest. When we finally fed the World’s Ugliest Dough Ball into the machine, it gave way to amazingly consistent sheets of uncut pasta and then to lovely, winding nests of noodles.
I’m sure we looked insane, high-fiving each other over and cupping our hands under the machine as if thar was gold is them thar noodles. But when we sat down to our bowls of homemade pasta and sauce, I realized why people still get married. It’s fun.
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