Free A Baked Ham by Jessica Beck Page A

I did more often than not
most days.
    “What sounds good this evening?”
I asked as I walked back to the kitchen to see him.
    Greg smiled at me.   “I was hoping you’d ask me that.   What do you think about blowing off the play,
going home, and kicking our feet up?   I
can’t remember the last time we sat around and just did nothing.”
    “I was talking about something to
eat,” I said.
    “I wasn’t.   Don’t worry.   I’ll feed you before we leave, Victoria.   Just don’t drag me back to that playhouse again.”
    “Last night hardly counted, since
you never actually saw anyone perform,” I said as I tweaked his cheek.   “You worry too much.   It’s going to be fun.”
    “I don’t see how, but I’ll take
your word for it.”   Greg turned back to
the grill, rubbed his hands together, and then he said, “I could always grill
us up a couple of plain hamburgers.   How
does that sound?”
    “Greg, there’s nothing plain
about your burgers, and you know it.”   I
thought about eating such a heavy meal, knowing how Greg liked to pile on the
toppings.   “On second thought, eggs might
be nice.”   I knew that some places
stopped serving breakfast at eleven, but not us.   If we were open, eggs were always on the
menu.
    “That could be fun,” he
said.   “Would you like scrambled?”
    “Sure, why not?   Throw in a little chopped bacon along with it
while you’re at it.”
    “And some cheese,” Greg
said.   “Some mozzarella would go great in
that.   How about some bell peppers, too?”
    “Hang on.   I don’t want a full-blown omelet,” I said.
    “Put yourself in my hands,” Greg
said.   “Besides, this is going to be for
both of us, so I should get a little input, too, shouldn’t I?”
    “Go on.   Make whatever you’d like to.   I’m sure that it will be delicious,” I said,
knowing that was his plan anyway.   I
could cook, but nowhere near as well as Greg could, and we both knew it.   While Mom could outshine my father in the
kitchen, Moose was better at it than Martha ever was.   If I ever had a daughter, I hoped that she’d
be able to outcook any man in her life, and if I knew Greg, he’d make sure of
it.  
    “That’s the spirit,” he said as
he gave me a quick kiss, and then my husband promptly forgot all about me.   When Greg was at his station at the grill, he
showed remarkable focus.   I’d learned
early on not to engage him in conversation while he was focused on cooking,
since it was doubtful that he’d remember a word of what we’d said.
    “I might as well glance at our
inventory and see where we stand while I’ve got a little time on my hands,” I
said.
    “Why don’t you just take a break,
Victoria?   You’re supposed to be off right
now, remember?”
    “Honestly, Greg, do I ever really have any downtime?” I asked.
    “You do now.   Grab us something to drink and set a place at
the table.   Our meal will be finished in
a dash.”   I was about to protest when he
said with a grin, “Don’t argue with the chef.”
    “No, Sir,” I said as I echoed his
smile.   “How does chocolate milk sound to
drink?”
    “What are you having?” he asked.
    “Chocolate milk,” I answered.
    “Then make it two,” he said.
    “Dinner is served,” he said a
minute later as he neatly divided the huge omelet and plated both sections.
    “I can’t eat all of this,” I
said.   What I had on my plate alone was
enough for three people.
    “You underestimate your
appetite,” he said.   “Go on and take a
bite, and then tell me you don’t have room for all of it.”
    I knew better than to argue.   I did as he told me, and then I felt the
ambrosia strike my palate, and smiled.   The cheeses blended together perfectly, and matched the subtle and varied
hues of the mushrooms, bacon, and bell peppers.   They combined into something greater than their parts, and I decided to
stop protesting and start eating.
    Sometimes I hated it when Greg
was