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The Sixth Love Language

March 24, 2017

Gary Smalley, may he rest in peace, coined the five love languages:

  • gifts,
  • quality time,
  • words of affirmation,
  • acts of service (devotion),
  • and physical touch.

My wife adroitly pointed out a sixth love language all my own: Food.

She is so right. When I found out the kids aren’t going to be home tonight, my immediate thought was not “flowers,” but “Dinner!”  My mind raced through the possibilities. Fettuccini Alfredo, pizza, Public’s subs (the gourmet’s sub sandwich)… maybe a cheesecake, or Crunch bars (my wife’s secondary love language)… cook or take out? I’m breathing heavy just thinking about it.

My wife’s primary love language is Quality Time. We (I) blend hers with mine and we spend time over good food.

That’s why I’m fat, because I’m passionate.

Image result for surf and turf

Can I just say, “Heaven!”

Even our Valentine’s Day family tradition is home-made, heart-shaped pizza. Christmas, we eat enough food to stuff Chinese orphans all over the world.

My idea of Cupid is a fellow with a delivery cap and a hand out for tips (I normally avoid them by picking it up myself. I’m a lover, not a spender).

I love kitchen aisles more than other men love Home Depot. My kids get me cooking utensils and appliances for Christmas.

If I had more energy, I’d be a cook instead of a guest. I’ve often reflected that what I thought was a teenage love of chemistry was really a love for molecular gastronomy.

My idea of poetry begins and ends with A Visit from St. Nick, which combines my primary and secondary love languages, at least a metaphor for food and sleep. “…all snug in their beds while thoughts of sugar plums dance in their heads…” Sure, they aren’t asleep yet, but snug in bed is the heart of joy, and while sugar plums aren’t actually food, but an old English term for metaphorical sweetness (as in words – another love language, i.e. “sugar plums fell from his lips” which means he’s speaking sweet nothings) or syrupy romance (NOT a love language, I’ll deal with it.

Perhaps because I have no love of morning, I don’t eat breakfast before noon, but often after six. Breakfast for dinner is an ecstatic conundrum. (I admit, that’s why I don’t attend Men’s Breakfast at church. Not only is it a sin to wake up and move early on Saturdays, morning breakfast makes me gag. Am I the only one who wants Men’s Lunches? Maybe we could meet in the middle with Men’s Brunch?)

The fact that I like to eat at night speaks to the stars being the beacons of love. Hmmm, I wonder what starlight tastes like?

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