My Favorite Chef

When I first met my husband, he was a science grad student whose sole cooking utensil was a frying pan.  Jeff might have had a pot for cooking pasta, but I couldn’t swear to it. Not that he needed much more – he had never tasted zucchini or broccoli or fresh fish.  And to him, “spices” was a singular word meaning salt.

            
So it might surprise you to know that last night, Jeff cooked dinner: salad caprese, grilled salmon delicately with a multi-spice rub, and broccoli rabe with garlic and cayenne pepper.

            
Not bad, huh, for a one frying pan guy!

            
Of course Jeff’s transition from blandest of the bland eaters to gourmet chef didn’t happen overnight.  I used to slip in herbs and spices into his food, increasing the amounts ever so slightly until he was hooked.  But I really can’t take too much credit. A scientist, Jeff took to cooking right away, claiming it was really just chemistry.

            
So why do I bring this up, other than to brag about my favorite chef?

            
I thought I knew who my husband was when I married him in 1976, and I assumed he’d just become grayer (or balder) over the years. Turns out I was wrong.  Who knew adults continued to grow after reaching full height?  Because Jeff’s not only learned to cook, he’s also changed in other minor and not so minor ways. And, I guess, so have I.  Luckily, we’ve both changed, if not in tandem, at least in ways that have complemented each other.

            
So when I hear young couples talk with misty eyes of growing old together, I want to say … better you should wish for growing together as you get older.