“Do we have any basil?” my husband Andrew asked, peering up from his Father’s Day gift, a cookbook aptly titled How to Boil Water. In our 25th year of marriage, I have mandated that he must cook supper once a week.
I laughed. “Yes, in the window right behind you! Six plantings!”
“Oh. That’s basil?” asked my clueless pesto-loving spouse. I nodded, not asking how much he would need, knowing that if he decimates my entire supply, it’s fine. He’ll learn. We’ll eat. It’s all good.
A while later Andrew headed to the store to pick up supplies. I used the opportunity to slip into the kitchen to get a snack. On the days that he cooks, supper is late. It takes him far longer to prepare a meal than it takes me. That’s okay. He’ll learn. We’ll eat. It’s all good.
I wish I were this patient about all things with my husband. I’m not. Marriage is a kind of weird recipe for holiness: We toss ourselves into the mix, add our own spices, stir up our souls and learn from our mistakes. Sometimes we grimace at the result, and sometimes we smile. Frustration happens.
Andrew finally returned from the store with his list of ingredients. I showed him how to pinch leaves off the tops of the basil plants, so the stems would continue to divide and grow. “Huh! It really does smell like basil!” he marveled, as fragrance filled the air. I smiled at him, affectionately. He’s learning. So, I hope, am I.
But basil helps.
