As I walked in the door my eyes landed on his shoes. He was wearing his clogs. The new ones. The ones he bought just for cooking.
Yes, he had been to the market. Fresh broccoli and potatoes sat in anticipation on the butcher block. A white-wrapped steak waited neatly on the kitchen counter. He's at it again.
One hour earlier I had texted in the middle of a mild meltdown. Just three words: "I'm feeling overwhelmed." Those three words immediately set him into action. And here he was, in the kitchen, doing what he could to make it better.
Isn't that just like him? Over the twenty-eight years that I've known him he's rode in on various white horses to assist by bringing dinner to the college parking lot, programming a new cell phone at midnight and even purchasing a reliable car the morning after my freeway breakdown.
Twenty minutes later we sit together to a fresh dinner of homemade bread, grilled steak, sauteed broccoli and potatoes. Comfort food eaten together at home. And it completes the therapy the hour-long drive home began.
I am loved. My stomach, but more importantly, my life, are both full.