Last month after working increasingly long hours downtown, he began running home from the metro station each night instead of taking the bus. Impressive enough – but this is summertime in D.C. We’re talking 90 degree heat plus humidity, and the run is uphill the whole way.
He does this just about nightly. And each night, after cresting the final hill of his run, he is ambushed by the 3-year old and the toddler, both of whom are in thick of their “witching hour” -- the time of day most fraught with whining and tantrums. “Pick me up, daddy!” “Daddy, read me a book!” “Dady, Waaaa,” (the baby). And remarkably, inexplicably… he does. He picks up the crying baby, he reads a story (or three), he walks to a park, and he changes several diapers. “I missed you guys,” he says.
And now on the weekends there is this:
“It's arugula with roasted beets and Gorgonzola,” he says, as we sit down to dinner. Or:
“It's wasabi hamburgers.” Or:
“Swiss-chard wrapped salmon with orange-chipotle salsa.”
Last night it was Mexican corn timbales with some kind of creamy sauce and a hint of thyme and my goodness it was good. It turns out that not I not only married the handsome runner of my childhood dreams, I also married a patient, sacrificial father; a devoted husband….
…and a Michelin 3-star chef ("exceptional cuisine worth a special journey").
Bon appetit.
