At the time of this writing, I am going on the First month of the forty-eighth year of my marriage to an extraordinary woman, not your typical mother or wife, she has given me a lifetime of love, commitment, and understanding. However, it didn’t start out that way, in fact when I thought back all those years ago I feel embarrassed to the point of shame, but, also proud for the way things turned out.
Her name, until she took mine, was Carolyn. I was stationed at Dam Neck, Naval base in Virginia Beach. When I first met her, I knew she was the one for me, I knew. We were complete opposites, and I believe to this day that is one of the primary reasons why we have been married all these years, we mesh together so well. After knowing each other for two and one-half months, we were married by the Justice of the Peace in Norfolk, Virginia, in December of 1975. We did not get to actually live together until February of 1976.
We were fortunate to find a small one-bedroom apartment near the Navy base in Orlando, Florida (Remember, it’s 1976). The first day when I went to work at my station, Carolyn asked me, “Jimmy, what do you want for dinner tonight?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I responded, “how about Spaghetti?”
“Oh, ok, I can make that,” she said, in a tone that said she was satisfied with my answer.
That night, once I returned home, she was busy in the kitchen making our first real dinner as a married couple. She had dressed the table for a proper meal and called for me to come, sit and eat. As I sat down in my chair and looked at everything, which seemed beautiful, I felt as if she had outdone herself with our first dinner. However, as she brought in the spaghetti to the table and sat it down in front of me, my knee-jerk reaction was, “What the hell is this?”
The color of her face vanished, her eyes became large, and she said, “The corner store was out of the smaller spaghetti, so I had to get the only thing they had.”
I was young, running on raw emotion, “Not that! This!” I exclaimed, and I was pointing at the pasta that was lying in the dish, but, it had no sauce mixed in it. I had never been served spaghetti that way until that moment. How could I be expected to indulge in the meal with no sauce mixed with the spaghetti?
She relaxed a little and stated, “My mother makes it this way. You just put the sauce on the spaghetti-like this.” She took the gravy ladle and poured the sauce on the fresh white pasta. As she sat, she gave a small smile as if she had a little secret; I twisted the spaghetti around the fork, then dipped the pasta in the sauce and wearily slipped the food into my mouth. While the flavor erupted into my mouth and a smile formed on my face, she could tell I liked it. It was good, and we enjoyed the meal together.
The next morning while I was getting ready for work, my wife asked once again, “What would you like for supper?”
I stopped, thought for a moment, and then stated, “Ya know what I would really like for dinner? Beef Stew! I love beef stew; I haven’t had any since I enlisted in the Navy.”
Carolyn looked at me, smiled, and answered, “I can do that, I know how to make beef stew.” I already knew she baked well because she had made the best peanut butter cookies I had ever tasted. Beef stew would be no problem for this young woman of a great many talents.
So, when she said she could make the stew, I said, “Great!” and happily went off to work. I was pleased with the idea that after almost a year and a half, I was going to have beef stew for supper.
I practically ran home from work that night. I burst into the apartment, sat at the table, saw what was facing me in the bowl, and promptly asked, “What the hell is this?”
My wife’s face was flush, her smile was gone, and she asked, “What’s wrong?”
What I saw when I looked into the deep ceramic dish, which held all the ingredients that made up the beef stew, except one. There were carrots, potatoes, onions, and yes, even beef. However, the rich brown gravy that I was used to, was, at that moment, red, and that was what I tried to tell her. “You can’t have a beef stew with red gravy; you’re supposed to make it with brown gravy.”
This time she stood her ground, “Look, my mother makes a stew with red gravy, it’s still stew. It has all the ingredients of stew it just looks different.”
I tasted it; it was extremely good, but, the whole time I ate the “Red Stew,” I thought, ‘something’s not right. Gravy is supposed to be brown.’ Right?
After supper was over I had a personal problem. Gravy is supposed to be brown, isn’t it? My world was in a tailspin, I was now unsure of myself and of my role in my marriage. When I ate the “red gravy” stew and liked it, it was as if I was betraying my family, and my own belief system, and I was at odds with myself. My reaction was that I did what every twenty-year-old newlywed would do when I was at a loss for words, or out of ideas regarding how to react to changes in my life. I pouted. I’m not very good at pouting.
The next day, the same, question, “What would you like for dinner tonight?”
I didn’t trust myself to answer; I really didn’t know what to say. Should I risk asking for something that was difficult? Maybe risk criticizing whatever my wife made or ask for something simple that even I wouldn’t mess up? Finally, I remember something that my aunt used to make me that I liked. She would make a thick chicken-flavored gravy, mix in chopped carrots, peas, diced potatoes, and chicken, then cover it with a thick biscuit-type substance and she called this wonderfully tasting concoction, “chicken and dumplings.”
If I had it to do over again, I know, I should have never asked for that meal on that day, however, at the time, I missed my aunt’s cooking, and actually, I was a stranger in an even stranger land, called marriage. So, yes, I went and did it, I said, “I would really like some Chicken and Dumplings.”
When I came home and looked at the table, I could have opened my mouth to say almost anything as long as it was polite. But once again, my age, my immaturity, and my ignorance of unwritten marriage rules reared its ugly head, and I asked, “What the hell is this?!” Big mistake!
She had fixed baked chicken and some rolled dough that looked like giant, thick noodles that she called dumplings. I had never seen anything like them before, let alone eaten anything like them.
Carolyn’s face turned a deep shade of red. She had been hurt. Her eyes filled with tears, her posture was slumped, and I could see I had broken her heart. I honestly did not know what I should do. Just eating what she made wouldn’t make a difference this time. It was very quiet at the table in our apartment that night. Later that evening, I tried to make up by saying, “I am sorry, Carolyn.” But she would not talk to me. She was great at giving me the silent treatment. She still is, but not quite as silent as she used to be. Now, she stands up for herself.
Finally, when she did speak to me, it was not what I wanted to hear. “Every meal I have made for you, you have done nothing but complain about it. Can I do anything right?” In my mind, she already had. She stood up to me, but, that night was very uncomfortable for both of us because neither one of us communicated very well. I remember what my favorite relative told me when she reminded me, “Don’t go to bed mad, Jimmy. Because when you do, you may wake up angry, and that doesn’t do anyone any good.”
I walked into the bedroom and sat on the bed and listened as she continued to sob. Somehow, I realized that while I was stupid and inconsiderate, there was more to this than just food, meals, supper, and my foolish comments. I tried for several hours to get her to talk to me. Nothing. Eventually, I spoke, “You know, Carolyn, we are never going to get along if we don’t learn to talk to one another. I’m not perfect, and yes, I make enough mistakes for the both of us. But I was very proud of you when you basically told me what I could do with the Chicken and dumplings.” I softly chuckled and waited for a response. Nothing. I continued, “Honey, I have basically had to learn about life on the streets since I was ten. Can I be rude, yes, but you can help make me a better man. Not by being silent but by talking to me, letting me know what’s going on.”
She moved. She rolled toward me and wrapped her arms around me, and then after some coaxing, she told me about her life and how she grew up. My wife lacked self-confidence because she always played second fiddle to her other four siblings. Once she was done talking to me and telling me about her life, we fell asleep in each other’s arms.
I often remember that time in Florida, our first three meals together, and the terrible comment I made after each and every one. I now realize the wisdom I learned after forty-seven years with the woman I love. You see, I now know that it had nothing to do with the meals at all. What I have actually learned was respect for Carolyn, as a woman, my wife, a mother, and my best friend. I also learned the art of compromise. I have realized that regardless of what I was given to eat, to work with, or to wear. I should appreciate whatever it is because it came from her. She is the woman I love, the mother of my two children. She has helped me to be a better man, and a father, and she is someone I will love until my dying breath.
By the way, I did learn to eat Spaghetti by adding the sauce on top of the pasta, and the other pasta as well. Also, every time I have stew, it’s with the red gravy. As for the chicken and dumplings, well, we don’t serve that dish anymore. See, the art of compromise is alive and well.
