Butter Face

Sometimes when I want to feel especially fancy and my oh-my-what-budget? I go grocery shopping at a place called Harmon’s. (Where I have embarrassed myself plenty of times.) They have artisan breads that have crackle outsides with cloud insides. Looking for a cheese that costs $50 a pound? Please follow me, I can show you at least three. And their selection of pickles is just a few jars short of decadent. (Pickles!) I will wander the aisles with a cart full of milk and apples and window shop for food the way most women window shop for Jimmy Choos. Because I am totally stable like that.

A few weeks ago I wandered back to the case where they keep all their butter. Buckets of butter from England! Creamy pots of the stuff hailing all the way from French cows. Green wrapped presents of milkfat from Ireland with love. And then, there in to the side, a white paper wrapped roll of butter from Amish churns. I picked up that country butter and weighed it up and down in my hands. Someday, I thought, someday I will be the type of person that buys Amish made, paper wrapped butter.

And then. And then, I realized that I was fantasizing about butter and thought maybe it was time to be on my way.

A few days later, Riley called on his way home from work and said he was bringing me a surprise. Nothing big, he said, just something that made me think of you.

Fifteen minutes later that man walked through the door with a white paper wrapped package in his hands. A little piece of Amish creamed goodness just for me.

Riley! How did you know? I lusted over that butter for minutes just a few days ago!

He handed me that roll of delight and started laughing so hard his eyes disappeared.

Well, I stopped to get milk on the way home and saw this and thought of you. I guess I know you.

I guess he does.