One day my husband asked me to save my old pantyhose for him. “Any particular reason?” I smiled innocently, remembering long ago Joe Namath and his famous ad for same some years ago. Now, I know enough not to go prying into men’s lives; men do funny things, and if he wanted my old, ruined, stockings, so be it. But for two weeks, my already wild imagination had a heyday. Was he really going off the deep end? Only a few months ago, he had asked me to save old tweezers, which I finally discovered were used to repair microscopic parts of his computer.
Of course, people save all sorts of odd things. I never have rubber bands when I need them, and I never remember to buy a bag of them, which would no doubt last until the next millennium. Little housewife, me, I learned to take them off of our vegetables from the open market and toss them in the drawer with the 643 corks we keep, just in case.
My husband cannot throw out catalogs, and when I am desperate for a talking tie rack or a bun warmer that plays Brahms, I can leaf through any one of 486 catalogs in my spare time and find it, just like that.
Of course, now that Google is my guru, the catalogues can be recycled.
In the dead of night.
Quickly.
But I couldn’t get a leg up on the pantyhose. Things were taking a different turn, I could feel it. Should I ask outright, or suggest counseling? Or should I attempt to be one of those understanding, well-adjusted mates one reads about who simply puts on boxer shorts, lights up a cigar and joins in the fun?
I’m not that well adjusted.
The puppy was two dozen perfect sweet Vidalia onions, and they smelled as fragrant as the end of summer.
At the beginning of the third week (he now had about eight pairs of Bare Beige, Town Taupe and Vanilla Bean, all washed and neatly put away in his drawers, not to make a pun), I was saved, literally, by the bell.
My good-natured UPS man, who thinks we are certifiable anyway because of the deliveries of ladybugs, praying mantids, computer software, and boned woodcock on dry ice that get dropped off here, looked at me suspiciously, as he always does, when he opened the door.
“Somethin’s rollin’ around in there like puppies, only it don’t bark and it rustles and smells funny.”
He was right. It did, it didn’t, and it did. The puppy was two dozen perfect sweet Vidalia onions, and they smelled as fragrant as the end of summer. With them was a note saying, “Sweets to my sweetie.” And they were; even the famous Maui onions get a run (oh boy, another bad one) for their money from a fresh Georgia Vidalia. They are the equivalent of Tropea onions in Italy and Cevennes in France. Sweet as sugar.
It came to me as I gazed at my treasures that somewhere in my childhood I had seen an aunt or my grandmother knotting home-grown Texas onions in cast-off stockings, each knot forming a chamber in which the onion was kept fresh through the winter.
I raided the infamous pantyhose drawer and began knotting up my jewels, dearer than diamonds to one who loves to cook, and I strung them all over the house like garlands to welcome home my Vidalia-sweet husband.
We sat down that evening to iced cold onions, sliced thin, with tomatoes from the garden, homemade bread, and sweet butter.
“Had you worried, didn’t I?” My husband looked pleased with himself.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “If they looked good on Namath, I know they’d be smashing on you.”
