My first job in Portland was as a cook and baker at a popular breakfast cafe. This was ten years ago. I had long hair, which I usually wore in two braids. I wore t-shirts and old Levis.
It’s safe to say I made a positive impression on the produce delivery guy. He’d come in on Tuesday mornings and not stop grinning at me as he unloaded boxes of tomatoes, peppers and fruits. One day, he offered me a free pineapple. A tropical fruit kick-back, if you will.
My first though was to reject it. Not on any moral grounds, I just don’t really care for pineapple. But then I remembered that Ben likes it. So I took it for him.
Only, when I got home and handed Ben the pineapple and told him the story, he refused to eat it.
He was furious that someone would be offering me free produce. There could be only one motivation.
The offending fruit sat in the fridge for several weeks, rotting, until finally I threw it out.
And though I didn’t really understand why he wouldn’t eat it, I found it — and still find it — strangely romantic. And I like to think that if the same thing were to happen today with say, a muskmelon, that Ben would still refuse to eat it.
I’m starting a new occasional series: Ben stories. Because my husband is hilarious and wonderful, and you guys don’t even know.