The other day I was sitting on the couch reading, when The Cheerleader I Live With came out of the kitchen and silently presented me with this:

That’s a roma tomato, people. He had carved a roma tomato to look like a rose, and presented to me on a  silver platter  cap from a vitamin D bottle. On the weekend he had been telling me how he knew how to make a tomato-rose, but I kind of thought he was full of it, because 1) he’s a manly-man and manly-men don’t normally do these sorts of things, and 2) he used to work in the kitchen at a bar where, I’m sure, the need for tomato-roses was pretty darn slim.

After I oohed and aahed (and looked gratefully at my engagement ring once again), I said, “how often did you have to do THAT at the bar?” to which he answered, “never”.

“Well, where did you learn that from, then?” I asked

“The bar.”

He then went on to tell me how he used to work with a morbidly obese chef whose name he has long since forgotten, (which is probably a good thing, because he’d most likely be quite offended to be called morbidly obese), who was a rather talented chef. Morbidly obese chef-guy (MOCG) used to run a massive (morbidly obese?) kitchen in Las Vegas (morbidly obese!), where he basically managed the whole schmozzle. There were four restaurants that were serviced by this kitchen, and each of the restaurants featured a different type of cuisine: Japanese, Italian, continental, and a buffet (now, apparently, a cuisine type). Needless to say, MOCG had a great need for things like rose-tomatoes and apple-swans, and watermelons that look like palm trees.

Anyway, The Cheerleader I Live With really liked MOCG who always seemed to have interesting advice such as, “don’t marry a woman who you can’t laugh with in bed”, and “don’t hold the knife like that, you’ll cut your thumb off!” Seems that MOCG and his wife were on the lam or something, as they “had to” leave Nevada in a hurry, and “had to” sell off all their possessions, and “had to” change their names, burn their passports, give the dog to the neighbour, and fake their own deaths. Whatever. Who are we to judge, right? Glass houses and all that.

Long story short: the guy I’m going to marry was taught how to carve a roma tomato into a rose, by a fat guy on the run from the US Marshals with his wife, who, apparently laughs with him in bed.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Happy Thursday!