"Daniel, help!"
Into the kitchen ran a naked and dripping husband (mine, of course), who had jumped from his bath when he heard me holler. He grabbed a hot mit and put it on his left hand, and grabbed a fistfull of all purpose flour with the other. Foomp, foomp went the flour into the pot, and out went the flames.
The kitchen filled with smoke. Through the haze, I could see my husband, my grease-fire hero, covered with flour and wearing nothing but a hot mit. It was hard to keep from choking, between my laughter and the smoke.
I remember a day at the bed and breakfast, when we were all smiles because there were no check-ins that evening. We had the place to ourselves, for once! I didn't even do my chores, I just laid down to take a nap or whatever. I thought I had more than earned a break. Then the phone rang, and a reservation was made, to check in 10 minutes later. Daniel literally stopped mid-shave to vacuum the hall carpeting for me, because I had decided to blow off my chores that day. I photographed the moment, a photograph that will forever epitomize that season of our lives.
Back to last night. Hours after the fire, I was miffed at Daniel because he failed to be completely thoughtful in every way. He wasn't happy about it, but he never once brought up how thoughtless I had been to leave oil festering over a hot flame for nearly half an hour. He never once brought up how he held Jubilee on the couch through dinner, because she was sad, while the rest of ate our fill. He just rolled over and went to sleep, leaving me lying awake, thinking about what a wonderful man I am married to, and willing the night to pass quickly so I could wake up and tell him so. I inched closer to him as he slept, until my back was touching his, and I tearfully thanked G0D for my very good man.
