A single man becoming a married man requires some adjustments. And then when his wife becomes pregnant … he learns to adjust even more.
I was a cook in the Air Force and experimented in the kitchen a lot. I also tinkered with chemical formulas in high school and college. I liked inventing original recipes with whatever ingredients were on hand.
A small note: very few food dishes prepared by yours truly in my family of origin were popular ones, and I have fond, funny memories of an LDS missionary companion with a rather long nose (only one-eighth of an inch longer than mine, but that story belongs in another blog), who looked down the extensive length of his proboscis in disgust and disdain at what I concocted. This was just a forerunner of what was to come.
One afternoon, when my wife, Tristi, was about three months pregnant, I took a can of turkey chunks, some cauliflower, and some vinegar and mixed them all up together, then put them in the microwave. A minute or so later, Tristi demanded in an imperative tone of voice to know what was I fixing, and as soon as I listed it off, she accelerated herself into the bathroom to relieve her clenching stomach of its writhing contents. I have never seen her move so fast. She tells me she actually threw up through her nose, and it hurt.
So I learned to edit my diet to things that did not nauseate my beautiful wife . . . or to wait until she was gone before trying some of my more exotic, aromatic experiments. I didn’t have any idea what to expect from having a pregnant wife, but I certainly did learn a great many lessons in a hurry.
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