The Buoyancy of Citrus

It is a classic exercise. The teacher tells the students to take out a blank piece of paper. "Don't write on it until you have heard all the instructions,"  he directs. "First put your name in the upper right hand corner." Some eager students pick up their yellow Ticonderogas and begin to scribble. Teeth over lower lip, one leg tucked under the other, back bent over the top of the desk, focused. "Next, draw a circle in the middle of the paper."  Pencils move. In the front row, the smallest kid in the class begins to wave his arm to ask how big of a circle. The teacher goes on, "Now, ignore everything except step one."  Hands shoot up into the air as if they were all under arrest. Confusion spreads across the room. The teacher smiles, "Turn in your papers..." 

One of my favorite things about having all this time in our first year of marriage is the space we have to cook together. We set up menus on www.recipezaar.com, create shopping lists, print out the recipes on card stock, and invite friends to join us occasionally when the food preparation has taken longer than value of just two people dining. Although the kitchen in our studio apartment can hardly be called such, we somehow manage to maneuver around each other more fluidly than frantically. The knockings, scootings, bumpings and pushings are followed by genuine apologies and are even part of the fun. (Truly signs of newlyweds, in more ways than one!) 

Tonight we made these simple tuna cakes, that in the end, surprisingly, could be mistaken for something quite fancy on a restaurant menu--if I do say so myself. (Perhaps it is just the word "hollandaise" that makes it sound more uppity than it really is.) As Ben and I were floating around each other in our newlywed world, throwing cups of this and tablespoons of that into the bowl like it was a recipe for love (yes, I will stop here before you gag), Ben shouts,hands proceeding his words, "Nooooo! Not yet with the hollandaise!"  I abruptly tip the opened can back into an upright position. "But," I begin to argue, sauce still dangerously poised over the bowl, "Look: step number one clearly says, '1. Mix all ingredients.'"  I scan the recipe knowing Ben had seen something I hadn't.  Number seven brings enlightenment, the brightness of which is as yellow as the sauce itself. "Drizzle prepared hollandaise sauce over cakes." 

"Well, why did they put it that way! It's totally like that thing teachers do to make kids know that they should  listen to all the instructions first. There's a life lesson in here somewhere..." I drone on. We go back to twirling and spinning around our 4x8 foot wonderland.