Back in our third year of marriage, I decided one day to make a pie.
Now, you should know that I didn't come into the relationship a very motivated or interested cook (which is just plain sad and inexcusable, given the fantastic cook that is my mother). Greg just knew that wasn't particularly part of the deal. There would be food; usually I would make it. That's it. He was getting other things in the deal but delicious brag-worthy food? Not part of the dowry. Case in point: for the first year of our marriage we used our deep fryer wedding present more often than we should have. Eating corn dogs and deep fried potato products--our state fair food stand culinary years--added to the giddy Pleasure Island feel of our early marriage but also added to the scale numbers. We threw that little FryDaddy away when we moved from our tiny $200/a month apartment. Lesson learned.
So back to the pie story. I got out the pie plate, followed the recipe & made My First Pie. And lo, it was good. Greg came home from law school that night, took one whiff of the lemon meringue air, gazed at the beautiful pie on the counter and said, all smiles:
"I did marry a woman who can cook!"
Yes, he had to wait three patient years. I had no idea he was really pining for a wife that could cook and to his credit he never let on.
Well, me to cooking is Greg to handyman skills. As a young man, he wasn't interested & opted to take AP Chem instead of shop or autoshop in school (or, really, learning from his own dad. What is it about kids not learning from their parents?). Now and then he calls his dad for advice and info (his dad being the handyman equivalent of my mom's gourmetness.)
Recently we ordered a new gas stove and new dishwasher. In a reversal of his pay-for-others-to-do-it, they-do-their-job-and-I-do-my-job philosophy, Greg opted to install them ourselves. (And by ourselves I mean Greg. This, it should be known, made me nervous. But did I express doubts? Well, yes. A little. I had some visions of gas explosions and such. Greg's way more longsuffering than I am about keeping quiet about these things.) Seven trips to the hardware store later (a pesky-sized connector was to blame), he has done it, along with replacing light fixtures and whole outlets without electrocuting himself.
Well, color me impressed. I really did marry a guy who's a handyman.