How many’s a few?
I dunno…four? Maybe five?
I can make a stir-fry that I learned years and years ago from a cookbook by my idol, Nigel Slater. It’s a Thai one and I can whip it up swiftly with my eyes closed (though I usually have no reason to close ‘em). And friend, I truly believe it is damn near perfection every single time.
I can catch trout on flies. Not all the time, mind you, but enough of the times so that I consider myself a decent enough fly fisherman to keep going.
I make good feta/basil/tomato omelets.
How many’s that?
Okay, one more.
I can play medieval castle with my kids for way longer than they can. Not once, I tell you, have I been bored and walked away from the imaginary moats or the fake plastic dragons before they have.
So, as you can see, I have my hands full with enough being good at this’n'that that it would almost come as a surprise to many of my inquisitors to discover that I seem to lack quite a bit of suave when it comes to doing one thing in particular: being a husband. Now, don’t get excited, this won’t be a tale of my debauchery, of my endless drinking and womanizing and gambling, of me being a flat- out rogue in matrimony.
I’m afraid that I’m far too vanilla-bean to offer you up such a generous silver platter of morsels and tidbits. Instead, what I stand to offer any man (or woman!) who is either bumbling through a marriage of his/her own or engaged to be married in the near future (and thus completely blinded by something very shiny which they think is a diamond but which turns out to be a teensy sharp shard of dangerous glass), is the very useful and hard-earned knowledge of a dimwitted fool who has been married for thousands of days.
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