By Vicki Hughes        March 15, 2013

I married a man. It’s true. When John and I married, twenty-seven years ago today, He was twenty-five, I was eighteen. To our families, I am sure we were still kids, (Momma still calls us The Kids,) but we were ready. We had a small wedding in Las Vegas, with immediate family, and my friend from first grade, Cheryl. We said our vows at The Little Chappell of the West, and spent our honeymoon in Carmel, CA. At the risk of sounding sappy and old, it seems like yesterday. It also seems like 100 years.

John had big shoes to fill, to step up to the example my Dad had set. I’m a Daddy’s girl, who spent her childhood chowing down on filets and crab legs, discussing the finer points of gorgonzola and a good smoked Swiss. I grasped the rhythm and the value of a seven course meal from a very young age. I was raised in the golden-age of dark-paneled steak houses, with flaming Cherries Jubilee for dessert. Can I get an Amen?

Daddy taught me countless ways to be cool, so I could just melt into adult settings, without making a fuss. My Dad’s general philosophy in life is, Roll With The Punches. It has served me well. It turns out to be one of the key lessons I was meant to share with John. He’s the intense one, I am the ice in his tea. (Except he’s really more of a wine guy.)

John was the oldest of four, in a house where his dad bought coffee-flavored ice cream to keep the “house apes,” as he referred to the kids, out of it. Gourmet meals were few and far between for him before he met me. I felt it was my duty and responsibility to convert him into a complete foodie, and I am happy to report, mission accomplished!

He turned out to be a fantastic father, the best handler I could have hoped for, for a very strong willed, red-headed baby, we call, The Girl. The Girl turns twenty-four on Monday. Were it not for his intervention on several occasions, I might have fed her to the alligators. I’m glad he stopped me. It turns out, sixteen was not permanent.

We have spent these twenty-seven years working it out, grinning and bearing it, overcoming misunderstandings and hurt feelings. We’ve persevered through over-extended schedules, budgets and patience. We have chosen to huddle together, and take turns telling each other, today is not the day to throw in the towel. Maybe tomorrow, but we can get through today, especially considering what we have on the grill for dinner. If we are going to chuck it all, it won’t be on a night when we are having a great steak, spinach salad and oven roasted veggies with a decent bottle of wine. Hamburger Helper might have been our undoing, but we just never went there. As John says, “We always eat good.”

He has put up with my 1001 projects, and countless new ideas. He took the lead on all bug squashing, and took the reins a few times while I had a meltdown. He took his turn doing the dishes, makes the most awesome BBQ chicken and potato salad you ever wrapped your lips around, and he has provided a great lifestyle for us, even when it meant sweating his ass off, covered in sawdust to do it.

So, I raise a toast to the man in my life, who is certainly not perfect, but is perfect for me. I love you, Babe. Here’s to the next twenty-seven.

© Vicki Hughes 2013