I hear him in the kitchen now. He says I love you with the clanging of dishes and the crashing of forks.
He wears an apron with a cartoon crazy-chef-like image on it and is covered in flour. Hospitality could be his middle name, apart from the tornado aftermath of an amazing meal. But without the tornado, there would be less to love, for he throws all he has - hands, eyes, brain, and heart - into making us full. He allows the rest of us to sit awhile and talk, sharing ideas and updating stories, laughing like mothers and sisters do.
He knows its value, the heart of his wife. The ability to care for and nurture does not come easily to all men. But to him it does, he says, because he does it for me.
the man, the tattoo, the camping/cooking/loving legend