The Post in Which it Turns Out to be More About Him Than Her

I read that she was coming.

And I impulsively bought the cookbook, though most often I use her site for downloading family-friendly recipes. And my husband eagerly persuaded me to attend the book-signing here in our city, but I hedged about making sitter arrangements, for I wasn't really sure about actually meeting her. Great crowd of people I don't know? Meeting a celebrity? That's way outside of my comfort zone. But he assured me I wouldn't want to miss it and that it would be good for me, and he's almost always right about these things, and besides, it was a wonderful opportunity for some *together time*, so I made plans.

And so the cookbook lay on the counter in the kitchen where I whipped up some Chicken Spaghetti for my children and the babysitters, and then it lay by the door, where I grabbed it as I walked out, earrings pulling at my sensitive, it's-been-too-long-since-I've-worn-these ears, and I caught his hand and took a deep breath and we left.

And when we arrived, we waited. And waited some more. And waited even longer. (And by the way, if you live somewhere that you think she might not be as well known, think again. And you might want to show up really early.)

And here I am, realizing that I'm surrounded on all sides by people I don't know, and I'm beginning to pull inward, and I'm also remembering that I'm going to meet this generous lady soon and have to say a few words to her. {Gasp!} And I'm burying my face in his shoulder, and he's laughing at me and pulling me close and speaking strength in my ear, and snapping pictures of me as we wait and telling me I'm beautiful.

And I didn't know this night was going to be such a gift.

We had stolen away, blessed by two ladies who spent their evening reading and listening to our children. (emphasis on the listening!) We even left the long line and drove to a nearby restaurant for a quiet dinner, though it was past nine, and then slipped back in to stand with a new friend, whom I had previously engaged in conversation without realizing it; bolstered, perhaps, by my beloved's presence.

I hadn't even met Ree yet.

But when the moment came, and the butterflies had settled down during the forty-five minutes of standing in the next room and watching her sweet smile and tired eyes (for we were an hour past the deadline, and there were still many waiting), it was my turn. Ree's sister-in-law, Missy, snapped a picture of my husband, commenting on his good natured attendance of this nearly all-female event, and Ree herself said, What a good sport! as he smiled and held up the camera to snap a picture. Me? I crouched low, shrinking behind the table while she signed the book, and whispered I made your chicken spaghetti tonight... and she smiled and said Oh, good! Yummy! and handed me my book and it was over.



And when I looked at the inscription, and laughed at what I saw there because I realized how tired she was, I knew I couldn't have said it better myself.


To "the Hooper".

Because it was his idea, anyway.