Burned by the Flame of Love

This is actually a funny story.  (It has been a very up and down week here.  Mostly down with a few ups, but more on that later.)

Last night, I went and bought a steak for dinner from Bill the Butcher.  I had never been there before, but a friend recommended it.  My daughter and I went to the Farmer's Market on Saturday and bought Swiss chard and shiitake mushrooms.  The Big E (nickname for my daughter) looked up a recipe and made the chard by herself.  She started the mushrooms, Jack cooked the steak and the Boy helped with the mashed potatoes.  I put the dining room back in order after painting the walls yesterday and then set the table.  Jack had calmed down from his usual drill sergeant self in the kitchen, and the kids were happy.

Earlier in the day, I had asked Jack to write a letter telling me why I should stay with him.  He said he didn't have time.  It was 6:20 a.m. when we were talking, and I said, "You have time now.  Start writing."  And he did.  He produced six handwritten pages of why he loves me.

I was feeling nice after several days of deciding whether or not to kick him to the curb.  As the dining room was taken apart for the painting, I saw our wedding candle and decided to light it and put it on the table during dinner.  The candle is about ten inches high and maybe six inches wide.  We have been married for eighteen years.  We burn it once in a while, but there is plenty of room to go.  There are pressed flowers in the outer layer of wax, so it kind of glows when the candle has a good flame.  Sometimes, the flame is small as it sinks into its pool of wax.  It needs to get going for awhile in order to get a strong flame.  (I am kind of a pyro, but that is another story.)

After dinner, I grabbed a steak knife and started poking at the burning wick to raise it out of the pool of melted wax.  I sometimes use a knife to move the melted was around a candle, and wipe the melted wax off with my fingers before it sticks to the knife.  Last night, the knife tip was covered in wax, and I wiped it off with my thumb and forefinger.  Usually, I am fine.  This time, I got a blister on my thumb.  The knife was much hotter than I expected.

Oh well.  Burned by the flame of love.  Literally.  Not a metaphor.  Otherwise, we had a nice evening.