Back in college, Greg and I always went to Mass on Sunday evening. We usually parted ways afterward to eat dinner and tackle homework. But one night after we had been dating a month or two, I complained about the empty cupboards in my apartment. No more frozen dinners and baby carrots, I protested!
“Come to my place. I’ll make you dinner!” Greg said, a little bounce in his step as we walked back to the car. I agreed, envisioning a spaghetti dinner with garlic bread or some chicken with barbecue sauce, something manly but good.
When we got into his apartment, Greg stepped into the pantry and proudly held up two containers. Kraft macaroni and cheese and Bush’s baked beans.
My smile drooped.
“Macaroni and cheese?” I asked, unable to stifle my disappointment. “I have macaroni and cheese back at my apartment.”
That was the first time I saw Greg look truly sad. (I should note that Greg is the youngest child in his family. When he’s sad or doesn’t get his way, he puts on the cutest, poutiest face you have ever seen. It’s like he reverts to playing the role of the darling, innocent little kid. As an oldest child, I know this is a classic trick of the youngest child.)
“Have you ever had macaroni with baked beans?” he asked.
“No, and I don’t think I want to.”
“Just try it, it’s really good.”
Greg pulled pans from the cupboard with a clang and got to work. He had been so proud to make dinner for me. I had ruined it and totally deflated him. He would probably never cook for me again. Maybe he wouldn’t even see me again.
He dished up the concoction on the hand-painted pasta plates he had purchased on sale at Sam’s. He was very proud of the plates. I ogled the plates as if they were made of gold, hoping we could move past my earlier mistake.
I ended up liking the mac and beans. We still eat them on occasion. And whatever crack I caused in our relationship must have been sealed with the cheesy, gooey goodness.

When I got to work this morning, a man got on the elevator with me. He studied the width of the 1100-page book I held, The Executioner’s Song.
“Norman Mailer. You must not have any kids, to be reading a book like that,” he said.
“No, I don’t have any kids.”
“I used to read books like that,” he said, a bit of envy in his voice. “Now I read Dr. Seuss and the Princess and the Pea.”
There are only about 1000 more books on my reading list (excluding the complete works of Dr. Seuss). So I might get around to having kids when I’m 63, maybe 64.

Greg and I were listening to NPR on the way to work this morning. The news began with a report from Iraq.
NPR: “Attacks at a roadside check point killed two this morning.”
Sarah: “Is that a C-H-E-C-K point or a C-Z-E-C-H point?”
Greg: “Maybe it’s a check point run by Czechs.”
Sarah: “A Czech check point?”

Later, the report turned to Iran.
NPR: “Israel is planning a tax on Iran.”
Sarah: “Yeah, right. How are they going to enforce that?”
Greg: “No, they’re planning attacks, not a tax.”
Sarah: “Well that’s just a poor choice of wording for a radio program.”

NPR executives, I’m talking to you. I think you need my help. Hire me!