All this summer, I’ve been into sprouts. So much so that every time I bring out a jar of beans and a cup measure, Desi rolls his eyes and says, “More? What about these?” He’s pointing at two colanders already sitting on the kitchen platform, containing sprouts in various stages of germination.
To which I sagely respond, “You’re eating that one tonight, darling. And that one’s for tomorrow. And these,” — here, with a flourish, I pour out the beans, rattling and rolling, into the bowl I am planning to soak them in — “are for another day.”
At this point he throws in the towel and goes back to doing whatever he was doing, like rearranging the dishwasher all over again after I’ve already done it. Because Desi knows by now that no one — and I mean no one — comes between me and my sprouts.