Amaranth and crashing cars

I was forced to be nice to my husband tonight (against my will) because of the accountability of this blog. Not that anyone has read it yet, but my own conscience wouldn't let me fail so soon.

Tonight my husband asked me to make him popped amaranth.
Amaranth is an ancient grain originally enjoyed by the ancient Aztecs. Popping amaranth connects me to those ancients, except instead of honey and human blood I mix it with dried coconut and Sucanat. Also, as a Christian, I've never eaten it ceremoniously in honor of some blood-thirsty God.

When popped (yes, like popcorn) amaranth is nutty, slightly sweet and faintly reminiscent of honey smacks.

Hubby loves it.

I do too, except that it makes a huge mess. The seeds are small and they pop, pop, pop all over the place. My counters, floors, knife block, pots, fridge and cookbooks become covered. After popping it I have to sweep, wipe down, pick off and scrape.

Last night I refused to make it.

Tonight, though I wanted to refuse, I didn't.

I spent forty minutes popping- and cleaning up- amaranth.

I think I mentioned my husband isn't neat.

Pouring himself a bowl of amaranth left a pile of the grains spilling over the counter and onto the floor.

A normal person would see the mess and clean it up before wandering out of the kitchen.

However, my husband hasn't yet learned the art of making a sandwich on a plate instead of on a glass stove top. Expecting him to notice something as insignificant as a pile of amaranth would be too much.

Normally I would have said something snarky, but I'm taking this project seriously and "love is patient" popped into my head.

Patient.

Breath.
Bite tongue.

Harder.

Okay, not that hard. Blood is never a good thing.

Wipe counter.

Breath.

Good. All done.

My wifely duty was accomplished...

Right.

Unfortunately, Crash Course was on and my husband thought I might like to watch it with him.

You don't know what Crash Course is?

Neither did I and I could have happily gone through life without ever having figured it out.

Crash Course is a T.V. game show where adolescents in the bodies of adult men and women get behind the wheel of a car and...crash, burn, run into things and act like jocks after a night of hazing.

I'm not a Crash Course sort of girl.

I was planning on getting into some sweats, brewing myself a pot of herbal tea and sinking into bed with four pillows and a novel.

Instead, I found myself gazing dumbly at the television.

Until hubby began making "overtures."

Really, what else should I call them? This is a Christian blog, after all.

Without going into detail I will tell you I wasn't in the mood.

I was tired. Two kids, remember?

I was annoyed at the obnoxious hosts of Crash Course.

I was really looking forward to my novel.

My husband really wanted a response.

My pre-project response would be to roll my eyes at him and shake his hand off my upper thigh, but I'm a changed woman (or at least a changing woman) and instead I smiled at him, gave him a kiss and allowed him to flirt.

Because love isn't "self-seeking."

That's hard.

I can be a little self-absorbed.

I pretend the world revolves around my needs and desires.

Sometimes I treat my husband as though every act of kindness I show towards him takes so much effort and sacrifice.

But tonight I did something kind for him.

I spent time with him doing something he wanted to do.

I didn't complain when he did something annoying.

I didn't demonstrate my superior intelligence by explaining why Crash Course was a waste of my time.

It wasn't a waste of my time.

It was time spent with the man that loves and cherishes me.

Tonight I honored my husband.
I'm proud of myself.

And now I'm going to brew myself a pot of tea, get in my sweats and grab my novel...after I give my husband a big kiss and eat a bowl of amaranth.