Nachos have a special place in my husband’s and my history. They were what we ate the day we met. It was the last Wednesday in April, 2001. There were five of us, sitting on a bar patio because it was one of those springtime 80 degree days. Funny part of the experience, we all were eating the jalapenos. Outcome of the event, there have only been a handful of days since then that my husband and I have not at least spoken on the phone, if we weren’t together physically. It was a spicy hot beginning.
Let me back up. We had both been single a long time and both knew a gal named Joy. I worked with her and complained I couldn’t find a guy that could keep his word and be truthful. My hubby had told her he wanted to find someone who liked to go to happy hour and have fun. When she told me about him, she said he was short, bald, and portly. I was short, far from skinny and hair made no difference to me. Then she added, “He has a Harley and loves to dance.” I asked where he was.
Joy planned a happy hour with a few people so there would be more conversation and no one would feel put on the spot. It was a perfect set-up. The weather cooperated so we could sit out in the sunshine instead of in a dark bar, the drinks went down easily and the nachos disappeared in a flash.
Our relationship has been an easy one and we are still keeping track of the things we do the first time together. Yesterday at dinner, we could hear the guy in the next booth propose to his girl. She had no idea it was coming and it made us think back to our beginning. Ain’t love grand! We smiled through the whole meal. I hope their memory of that dinner lasts as long as our memory of the first time we ate nachos together.