Someone once said “Don’t knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people on earth couldn’t start a conversation if it didn’t change once in a while.” I, however, do not fall in that category. If you ask my Mama, she will be the first to tell you that for me, the power of speech came early. Bald and toothless and less than 2 feet tall, she claims I was already spouting off my opinions on the world at large.

Driving along in the car the other day I casually made a crack at my own expense regarding my often prolific discourse. Boy chuckled loudly and said “You really are QUITE the talker.” 

I turned to him, eyes wide, feigning disdain. 

“Don’t even pretend to act bewildered, babydoll. I’m somehow certain I’m not the first person to have ever mentioned this to you before” he grins. 

My eyes narrow to slits as I attempt to give him my best “you’re in trouble” look that he never really seems to buy. This only seems to make him laugh harder and dig deeper. 

“In fact,” he chuckles “I daresay you’ll even attempt to engage the Grim Reaper in conversation when your time comes and he arrives searchin for you.” He squints his face and raises his voice several octaves adding additional syllables to EVERY word attempting to match my speech pattern: “I just don’t know how you do your job, Mr. Reaper. Is it even possible keep a positive outlook on life when forced to operate daily in such a hostile, negative work environment?” 

The man cracks himself up. 

Truth be told, we are BOTH talkers. (Don’t even pretend to act bewildered, Boy. I’m somehow certain I’m not the first person to have ever mentioned this to you before.) It’s quite the wonder either one of us ever shuts up long enough for the other to get a word in edgewise. 

But let’s face it….there’s talking….and then there’s COMMUNICATING…. 

Boy informed me Sunday morning that he would like to cook dinner for us that evening. He has done so on many occasions and each and every time it’s been quite lovely. Considering many nights I have chips and salsa or a cup of yogurt for dinner because I am too tired to construct anything further, any time someone else offers to cook it’s like winning the lottery.  So even when he informed me up front that this was one of his more “health conscious” meals and that it wouldn’t be the same as other things he made me in the past, I shrugged it off just glad to know I would not be the one standing over the sweaty stove. 

That afternoon we wander the aisles of the International Food Market and I’m so busy absorbing the magnificent variety of insanely strange things for sale there that I scarcely notice the items he is placing in our cart. Had I not been so preoccupied with the octopus flavored potato chips or the fruit that resembled something Atreyu might have snacked on in The NeverEnding Story, I might have realized dinner was shaping up to be…interesting. 

Later that evening I meander into the kitchen drawn by the rhythmic tap of Boy’s knife against the cutting board. I snag a slice of shiny red pepper from his fingers and lean back against the counter munching. I take in the pretty button mushrooms soaking in the sink and the deep green sea of broccoli splayed freshly scrubbed beside it. There are some additional “greens” with which I’m not overly familiar and I internally cringe a bit as I’m not the biggest fan of most things large and terribly leafy. I’d rather be drug naked down a gravel drive behind a pick-up truck than eat anything in the cabbage/collard/turnip families. He is busy gliding a large sharp blade thru a thick shiny block of beige and it dawns on me that it is TOFU. Or at least I correctly assume so given that I have never seen that mess in the wild before. The few encounters I have had with the stuff have all triggered my gag reflex almost immediately. Fear and Shame tickled the length my spine as I pondered what it might be like to vomit in front of Boy for the very first time as that seemed a likely outcome. 

“Is that tofu?” I squeak. 

“Of course,” he says “what else would it be?” 

I fight back the urge to answer Modeling Clay? Goat boogers? Something scraped from the bottom of a deck plank recovered from the Titanic? 

“Dinner will be ready at 7:30″ he smiles. I look at the clock. 26 minutes. Not nearly enough time to get out of the state. Not even long enough to borrow a dog to feed under the table or sew a pocket on the inside of my shirt collar to discreetly tuck things in. I have to face the brutal reality that I am not going to be able to avoid eating this stuff. 

Moments later my nose is met with a sharp acrid smell and I make the mistake of wondering aloud what it is only to have Boy informs me there is vinegar in “the sauce”. 

By the time I begin to set the table my hands feel numb and a sheen of anxious sweat has formed on my forehead. Sitting sweetly across from me, blissfully unaware of the acid reflux rebellion taking formation in my gut, Boy smiles and says “Dig in!” 

I weighed out my options and decided it was likely a better plan to let Boy know ahead of time it was quite possible the evening was about to take a fairly unpleasant turn. 

“Just try it” he says and so, I do. 

He laughs as my face wrinkles and contorts. While texture-wise it was far from ideal, it wasn’t nearly as flavor revolting as Id feared. I managed to take several bites before giving up completely. 

“Well?” he asks 

“Well, it isn’t the worst s%*t I’ve ever eaten!” I say. 

He stares at me solemn-faced, his blue eyes blinking. 

“You wouldn’t want me to LIE would you?” I say, my voice raising. 

“No,” he conceded. “But there is a very LARGE spectrum of communication between lieing and saying it isn’t the worst s%*t you’ve ever eaten!!!” 

I immediately apologize and then we both dissolve into hysterical laughter. Given that Boy possesses a fantastic sense of humor he now refers to that dish as “Notwurst”….and given that he is also a raging smarty pants, every five minutes he claims something I have done or said or made is “not the worst <insert random action here>” he has ever encountered.  

It is also of important note that along with the hyper-healthy dinner he made that evening, Boy made me homemade Crème’ Brule (which just happens to be my favorite) for dessert. Clearly I’m very mistreated. 

If communication really is the art of depositing part of yourself into another person then it’s obvious that even we talkers sometimes still have a lot left to learn. The truth is the kindest word in all the world is the unkind word, unsaid. Even a fish wouldn’t get into trouble if he learned to keep his mouth shut every once in a while. 

“Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.” ~Mother Theresa