Tonight as Mike was reading the Bible to me I was fussing with my wedding ring, noticing how the flesh of my finger is permanently molded underneath it. The muscle has grown around the ring and my finger is noticeably skinnier for those few millimeters.
We had pizza for dinner tonight while we watched a TV show. I was positively exulting in my crust. I am on a quest for the perfect pizza crust and every time I make it I swear it’s the best I’ve ever made. Tonight’s was the highest moisture dough I’ve ever used, with a 2:1 ratio of flour to water. It was amazing. “Just a tad crispier and you could open a restaurant,” was Mike’s comment. He’s right: it needs a little more oil coating it, a pizza stone, and a much hotter bake than the 500F I can eek out of my little oven.
We were chatting tonight and I, in my silly, girly way, was fishing for love: “You seem like you’re in love with me. Are you in love with me? Do you enjoy everything about me?” “Yes, especially the pizza,” he said. It made me stop and dig back in my memory: When did I start making pizza? Good pizza is on that short list of things that IS me, at least in my husband’s eyes. I didn’t start making pizza until we got married, and even then I shudder to recall those first few tries.
I love a good pizza, but there are plenty of other things I’d think to make if it were up to me. One tired, late night I made the mistake of asking Mike what he wanted most in the whole world for dinner. He asked for pizza. Pizza is a lot of work and mess. But Mike got his pizza that night. And whenever I make it, it’s usually because I’m wanting to spoil my husband a bit; bring a little smile to his day.
Truth is, the reason Good Pizza is on the short list of “me” things is that I am married to Mike. I love that marriage changes your identity and reshapes you into something you never would’ve been.