He’s got the baseball game on the television in the living room. There’s a twinkle in his eye. Maybe that’s a cliché description, but I can’t find a sufficient word to describe the beauty of that moment, the look he gives me as I pull into the garage, or the way he taps the back of the car because he disagrees with how close I pull to the inner wall. He swears he’s going to hang a tennis ball from the ceiling so I don’t park too close to the wall. And on this night I bring home a six-pack of Sam Adams to his surprise, and I fix Bobby Flay’s recipe for Fish Tacos.
Only I tweak the fish recipe. I forgot to buy soft taco shells because I thought I had some left over from last week’s shopping. So I use the thin, whole wheat bread instead for a tostada effect. My store didn’t have the right pepper and I used crushed poblano instead and more than a tablespoon. In place of Canola oil, I used extra virgin olive oil with a splash of Sam Adams. I did marinate it for twenty-minutes, but I did not grill it. Instead, I fried it. The fish was tilapia. It was on sale.
As he sips his Sam Adams, he has a contented expression on his face. Texts are exchanged between his mom and him during the baseball game. She’s watching the Coyotes hockey game. He’s watching the Diamondbacks against the Dodgers. They are talking about two different games on the same texts. I am laughing as I watch the exchange. I don’t understand what people love about watching sports on television, but it’s a cute attribute in my husband. I can’t imagine him not liking baseball any more than I can imagine me not loving to read or write.