Say that 5 times fast. I dare ya.
So lately, Mr. Converse has been feeling the pull of the kitchen. It has been quietly calling him, beckoning him to it's gleaming (with smudgy finger prints) stainless steel, smooth (if you don't count the crumbs and I don't) granite and bulging cabinets full of delicious delicacies (ok, let's be serious - I'm lucky if I grocery shop once a month).
For the past couple of weeks, Mr. Converse will randomly call me up and say "hey goddess divine (hey it's my blog, I can embellish if I want, don't judge me), pick a recipe and I'll cook it for you tonight." And then I'll be like, "say what? did I just hear you correctly? you, the man who still isn't sure how to turn our oven on is going to whip me up a culinary feast?"
And he did. Three times. He ain't stupid. He knows the way to any respectable gal's heart is through her stomach.
Score one for wives everywhere.
And Mr. Converse may have scored those nights as well...
Oh Lordy, did I just type that? Sorry Mom.
All the best (shoes),