Love is bruschetta.

Troy's excitement for our new little garden has been contagious. I was, at first, excited about the idea in theory. The tired part of me was a little more wary. He's been gravitating to it, weeding, watering, tending in general. I'm starting to realize if I notice Troy missing, I can probably find him in the garden.
As our peas and cucumbers climb their way up their little trellis, it reminds me of being a kid. Running across the lawn to the raised beds, eye level with the vines, choosing from the ripe sweet peas to snack on. Washing a handful of little carrots. Scouring the raspberry bushes, gingerly stepping between them, nervous of snakes or mice lurking in the hay, being pulled at by the thorns, looking for the hidden spots with the biggest undiscovered berries. It makes me happy.
We've been watching our little herbs grow, realizing we're not really sure what to do with them. The other night Troy was running around, obviously working on something. YouTube/Google to the rescue and he was on his way to the garden, back soon with our first little harvest. We looked at it on the counter, at each other, and I couldn't help but giggle. Now what do we do with it?

I continue on with the evening, bedtime, baths, jammies, books. One trip through the kitchen and Troy holds up his blender, revealing heavenly pesto beneath my nose.

Later, I'm snuggling on the couch with Clairie, the little girl who wouldn't sleep that evening, and Troy emerges from the kitchen, a platter of bruschetta in hand, rivaling any I've ever had. I love that man.