Dear Millie Noe it all,
The other night my wife said, "Be careful. You are going to burn your tongue."
While it is true that I had a fork in my hand and I was standing in front of the meatloaf she had just pulled out of the oven and was about to vaporize the top layer of my skin judging by the juice still bubbling out of it like lava, I am seventy-two, eleven months and thirty days old. So I think I know by now the hazards I am capable of inflicting upon myself.
However, I believe in the right to choose.
Is that not what life is about?
Is this not America?
That is why I turned her way and said, "Maybe you should mind your own bees wax."
The reason I am writing to you now Millie, is I am in need of a little advice in regard to an apology letter.
This is what I have so far.
I know that you care about this old tongue of mine. I should never have suggested that you should mind your own bees wax. Instead I should have thanked you for always being there and for always looking out for every single solitary part of my entire existence, all thirty-five years, four months and twenty-eight days of our blessed marriage.
Love you lots,
Do you think this will this suffice? Will she forgive me?
This reminds me of a similar situation that took place in our kitchen a couple nights ago between yours truly and my Sweet Sven.
However my recollection is different than yours. I recall warning my darling husband of the danger that lay ahead since the meatloaf I had just pulled out of the oven was still bubbling up and out through the glazed ketchup on top similar to the black gold that made Jed and his family rich and famous and move to Beverly Hills and have their own tv show with a cement pond in their back yard.
As memory would have it, I apologized for speaking out of turn.
I told my sweet Sven that at his age, which we will not go into, he should know the scoop.
"It is your decision," is what I said.
And then I told him that I burn my tongue almost every day, so I understood his dilemma, but this dilemma was his alone and if he wanted to make a ridiculous choice, it was his ridiculous choice to make.
I understand that often times a hand with a fork is faster than the mind in charge of the hand. Just like a mouth shoots off before the brain has a chance to engage. And a left hook simply comes out of nowhere.
I cannot change human nature.
But, that particular evening in our kitchen, my husband put down his fork. He set a slice of meatloaf on a plate and he let it cool one long minute before biting into it.
He did not burn his tongue.
Therefore no apology is needed.
He did nothing more than roll his eyes. This shows great character and restraint.
My husband made the right choice.
And you, my dear, are welcome for the seven hundredth and sixty-second thousandth time.
Love you lots,
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