Love is an extra shallot.

Last night, as much as I hate to admit it, I was disappointed. Except for the card that Damon had picked up a few days ago and the extra kiss in the morning before he left, there was no mention of our anniversary from him -- no big sign, no love letter on my pillow, no rose hidden behind his back when he came home. It was really just like any other day. I was trying to cook a special dinner (surf and turf -- a disaster, let me tell you) but was having trouble with no new groceries and all the veggies having molded during our weekend away. Bummer. I called him to pick up what I needed on his way home and I knew I had pissed him off - he hates having to go anywhere extra on his way home, but I knew he swallowed his annoyance because it was our anniversary.

Needless to say, we were pretty quiet yesterday, both swallowing what we didn't want to bring to the table on our celebratory day. And now, a day later, I realize something -- Damon did bring something home yesterday. He went to not one, but two supermarkets, to hunt down a shallot. Even though he was annoyed by my negligence and probably cursing my existence, he went the extra effort for me. And that shallot, and all the other little every-day things that he does, remind me why I love him and how much he takes care of me. Because underneath roses and presents and all the hoopla of special occasions, in the end he's just always there, always ready, always willing.