Last week, Husband and I were excited to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. It’s already been three years since this forever-single lady found a perfectly imperfect man who wanted to spend his life with me.
We had reservations at a fancy, new restaurant in town. But at the last minute, we looked at each other with a shared streak of rebellion. “Let’s ditch this predictable Popsicle stand and head for an adventure.”
We ended up at a little hole-in-the-wall Korean restaurant. Things went goofy from the start.
As soon as we were seated, the server ran up to our table. “You should try the seafood pancake!” she insisted, pointing to the item on the menu written mainly in Korean. “A man ordered wrong pancake. He doesn’t want it. You can eat it.”
Before we knew what was happening the steaming, previously untouched, unwanted pancake was sitting in front of us with side dishes known as “banchan.”
It was delicious.
Meanwhile, we ordered the special chicken dish mentioned in an article that alerted us to this restaurant.
We waited. And waited. And waited.
“So sorry,” the server apologized when she came back a half hour later. “The chef cooked your food. I gave it to someone else. I will make you another one!” And with that, she was off giving us no chance to protest.
So we waited again.
While we were waiting, I took the chance to ask Husband, “So how has the first three years of marriage gone for you?” I asked knowing he could call this the marriage from hell.
There’s my old stinky dog, raising teenagers, my obsession with finishing my first novel, my ailing elderly mother on the other side of the country. All things that often get my attention ahead of him.
“This marriage has far exceeded my wildest expectations,” he smiled, taking my hand.
Does he not see all my flaws and our challenges? He says he sees a wife who doesn’t nag, who is a great mom, who travels the world with him and laughs at about a third of his really bad puns.
I see a man who is incredibly generous with what he chooses to see.
Which brings me back to that darn chicken. It finally arrived; a huge mound of steaming chicken, rice noodles, chiles and spices. I have to say it far exceeded our wildest expectations.
So yes, you could call it the dinner from hell.
I’d call it perfect; a reminder and celebration of life.
So often you can’t control what you get served up or when it arrives.
And a crazy chicken dish, like the right wonderfully imperfect man, sure is worth waiting for.
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