Training the Palate

My first entry on Typetrigger, a fun site. The challenge: write a quick piece including the word “spammer.”

Before we married, my husband had to agree to let me civilize him, starting on day one. Otherwise, no go.

I love the man, but when we met, he was a barbarian. Did not change his underwear or socks on a daily basis. Emerged from the bathroom with his hands still dry. Never used a washcloth.

He’s a lovable lug, but really.

Now, after a year of wedded bliss, he is much improved. When he gets up in the morning (after me), he makes the bed. He shaves every morning. He’s cleaner all around.

He says Yes Ma’am and No Ma’am. He opens the door for me. He says please.

At table, he is learning, slowly, to appreciate good food. The first time I served him Eggs Benedict, he stared at the plate, uncomprehending. Ditto my merest excursions into gastronomy, via, for example, veal scallopine with asparagus. My husband’s gustatory tastes (if that is not redundant) remain of the most basic sort, and whereas he readily took to my requests for cleanliness and organization, he has resisted my attempts to educate his palate.

Last night, I placed before him roasted artichoke with chipotle aioli, as a starter.

His visage grew petulant.

“Tonight I want Spam,” he said.

“My dear,” I said, “that’s quite impossible.”

“No,” he said. “I want it.”

” But I’ve made Parmesan pumpkin dumplings.”

“Not tonight,” he said. “It’s Spammer nothing.”

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