I married him for a reason ... So I wouldn't starve

After passing and not buying a jug of apple cider (always smells better than it tastes), ripe, red apples and apple pies in the grocery store earlier in the day, I couldn't get the phantom aroma out of my memory.

I had to have apple something. Preferrably not a healthy apple, by itself. No, I was more in the mood for sugar, cinnamon and something bad for me, with an apple mixed in there somewhere.

My mom's apple crisp ... My God, I had to have it. Problem was, we had two apples (you need like, eight) and another trip to the store would've proven a bad idea, cost-wise.

Casually I mentioned to Dave sometime while he was at work that I wanted apple crisp. When he got home at midnight, obviously it was too late. But then I heard the bowl being set down on the countertop. A knife cutting something. The lid of the flour twisting off and back on. The door of the microwave. The beep five minutes later.

And from my perch in bed upstairs, I could smell it.

The man made me a single-serving size of apple crisp at midnight.

And it tasted quite awful.

But let's look beyond that. The man. Made me. Apple crisp. One serving. For me.

If I could go back to the dramatics of every "BUT I LOVE HIM" break-up I'd ever had and tell myself one thing, it would be this: "Put down the cell phone. Go wash your face and throw away those stupid love letters. There's this guy -- you don't know him yet -- but he's going to make you dessert at midnight one night just because you mentioned it in passing. Seriously, this guy who says he can only see you on Wednesdays because he needs his 'guy time' isn't ever going to do that. Woman. Listen to me."