A few months after my wife and I were married, we discovered she was pregnant with our first child. We were still fairly young and newly married, but it was an exciting occasion. At the time, I worked a very early shift, so I usually went to bed early. After I’d already retired one night, she woke me up and made an announcement.
“I need a cantaloup,” she said.
“Yes.” And she would probably die if she didn’t get it.
I glanced at the clock and reminded her it was January and there was a blizzard outside.
That didn’t matter, she needed a cantaloup.
So I got up, put my coat, hat, boots, and gloves on over my pajamas and trudged outside. I cleaned the snow off the car and drove to the nearest supermarket. I sloshed through the unplowed snow, into the store, to the produce section, and found a not-very-fresh cantaloup that was probably shipped from Mexico. And it cost $6 a pound.
But she needed that cantaloup.
I carried it up to the register and plopped it onto the scale. The check-out lady looked at me with squinty eyes.
“My wife’s pregnant,” I explained.
She nodded. “Aaah, you’re a good husband.”
Probably not, but she needed the cantaloup anyway.
I grumbled and carried my $12 cantaloup outside into the storm, dusted the snow off the car, and slid through the ice back home. I removed all my snow-covered clothes and found my way to the kitchen. I cut the precious fruit open, cleaned it out, carved it into small squares, and carefully arranged them onto a plate. I even included a small fork.
Finally ready, I walked into the bedroom and presented my culinary art piece.
She smiled and thanked me, then got a strange look on her face. “Oh wait, I meant honeydew, not cantaloup. You know, the green kind.”
By then, I’d already fallen back asleep.