a post about toast.

I was a little surprised that everyone commented on the shower part of Charles' post, and not on the mommy and daddy part. Especially since everyone is always finding excuses to ask me if I'm pregnant anyway. I'm still not, but Charles was afraid that his post made it sound like I was, and I thought it'd be funny to leave it up, so I didn't tell him how to delete the post after I'd read it. But I'm the only one who thought it was a fun joke, I guess!
I'll have to try harder next time.
I had about four different posts running through my head this weekend, and I meant to get them all typed and saved on Saturday, so I could just post them one at a time throughout the week and make you all think I had nothing but time to kill, but I can't remember a single one of the posts I was going to write. Not one. So I was trying to think of something to write about tonight, and Charles told me very matter-of-factly, "Post about toast, of course." Of course. Sometimes the answer is so obvious that it doesn't come to mind. "Post about toast. Post about roast. Post about compost!" I think I will.
toast.
I love toast. When I lived in Turkmenistan, we only had Turkmen bread, which is very hard to make toast out of, since it's flat. So I found myself pining away all school year for toast, and I ate my grandma out of house and home every summer when we stayed with her. I would eat several pieces of toast everyday. Reading Harry Potter always gives me cravings for toast and smashed potatoes, because Harry is always eating them, and they're both comfort food. Since so much of the Harry Potter books takes place in the winter, I get chilly and I crave winter comfort food when I read them. I love peanut butter toast, jam and toast, cinnamon sugar toast, and regular toast, but my very favorite kind of toast is strawberry toast. You toast the bread just a tiny bit, and then let it cool for a second before you butter it, so it doesn't melt all the way. And then you cover the toast with slices of strawberry. That's my favorite toast. Charles always eats toast with his dinners, even macaroni and cheese and ramen. My mom would die if she knew I let my husband eat two kinds of grain and no vegetables for dinner, and she'd roll over in her grave after that if she knew that I also sometimes participate in said blasphemy.
roast.
My mother-on-law makes a roast almost every week for Sunday dinner. The exceptions to this rule are birthdays, when she takes requests. Requests means London broil. When I was a kid I hated the meat part of pot roast, and I refused to eat it. And I threw a fit if the gravy touched any of my food. I loved the carrots and potatoes part though, because Emile and I called them rocks and sticks, and pretended we were captured princesses or exiled philosophers being forced to eat rocks and sticks against our will. We hardly ever ate real food. It was always mud, rocks, sticks, worms, cat's paws, toenails, etc. The meat didn't take much imagination, though. It was already a dead cow, so that was already gross enough. I still don't like the meat part.
compost.
Every Thursday, I go skiing for my class, and it's been so stinking fun I've made friends with a woman named Lynn, because we seem to learn at the same rate, and she's very fun to talk to. We take turns going down the hill first, and making lots of turns and being as complicated as we can, and then the other one of us follows down and tries to keep to the track the first of us made. It's really fun. Except when the person you're following seems to have some kind of intestinal discomfort, as, for a long while, I thought Lynn did. Every time we got about halfway down the mountain, she'd let one fly, and I had to ski through it. I never said anything, but it was like swimming into someone else's warm spot. It wasn't my favorite. One day I went first, though, and I still ran into the cloud of smelly warm air, and I even checked to make sure Lynn was behind me. She was. Then I looked ahead, and saw over a small mound a snow that there was a giant pile of rotting compost behind a a cabin, right next to the slope. I'm glad I never said anything to Lynn. But it's a little unnerving that she never said anything to me, either. She probably still thinks it's me.
I love Charles the most.
Ok, by now you've all had the chance to read Charles' post from Friday. Do I have a phenomenal husband, or what? Charles knew I was having a rough morning that day, and even though he was, too, he still got me out of bed, got me dressed, and got me off to work. He is such a wonderful support to me. I don't know what I would do without him. Besides sleep in til noon everyday. He even had a fresh batch of tulips delivered to my office that morning, too. My office is very secure, and you have to have an ID card to get in, so the delivery guy couldn't bring the flowers to my desk. So the security guy got on the loudspeaker and called "Molly Campbell, please come to the front desk, Molly Campbell." All my co-workers "oooooooh"ed as I walked out, and said I was in trouble, but they were so excited when I came back with bright red and pink tulips. They kept asking if it was my birthday or anniversary, or if Charles was trying to make up for missing Valentine's Day, but none of those were true. He was just being sweet and thoughtful, and finding yet another way to show his love for me.
I am so grateful to have you as my husband, Charlie. I will love you forever, and that's a promise. I can't wait for eternity with you!