Mr. How Sweet is a man’s man.
He is polite and a gentlemen – he still opens the car door for me every time.
He usually shaves, but occasionally has some scruff. And I know he really just wants to wear jeans and flannel. But I’d throw a hissy fit.
He doesn’t mind getting dirty or rolling in the mud. Not literally of course.
And his meal of choice will forever be one of two things: pizza or steak.
He wasn’t always this way. When we first met, his outfit of choice included skinny Dolce and Gabbana jeans, and on one of our first dates we went to get sushi.
I couldn’t pay him to eat sushi now.
At the risk of totally humiliating him, I have to tell you that Mr. How Sweet made me a mixed tape CD every month, for the first year-and-a-half we were together.
They were filled with the newest top 40 hits and occasionally some sappy love songs.
I even remember receiving a text message from him in the early days about how he was exciting to watch Dancing with the Stars with me that night.
And one night, while we were watching it, he mentioned taking dance lessons.
Who is this man, and is he real? Or did he just inhale too many fumes on his commute home from work?
I’d like to tell you now that he tricked me.
Most of it is a blur, but as he grew older and out relationship matured, the real Mr. How Sweet came out.
The Mr. How Sweet who was in posession of 600 dyecast Nascar cars and live for Sundays to watch the race.
The Mr. How Sweet who stopped listening to my fun music and subjected me to some heavy metal, but ever worse, some old school country. As in I-only-want-to-listen-to-Conway-Twitty-and-Waylon-Jennings old school country.
And while we’re at it, can someone tell me who in the world those old fogies are?
Never mind, I’d rather not know.
Mr. How Sweet even used to watch some chick flicks with me, and enjoy trashy reality TV.
These days, I’m more likely to find him handicapping the Kentucky Derby on the computer while I lose brains cells watching Keeping Up With The Kardashians.
And as you know, Mr. How Sweet even had the audacity to grow a moustache.
Last night, I attempted to trick Mr. How Sweet with this pizza pasta.
I made some whole wheat pasta and tossed it with tomato sauce, parmesan cheese, fresh mozzarella, pepperoni, and italian seasoning.
Then, I covered it with provolone and added more pepperoni, and let it get hot and bubbly under the broiler.
It looked and smelled so delicious, and I don’t even enjoy pepperoni.
Mr. How Sweet loved it.
I held my excitement inside, but I was thrilled. Normally, a meal has to be topped off with chicken, steak, ground beef or turkey, or some form of meat. If not, Mr. How Sweet finds a chicken leg in the fridge to gnaw on next to his meal.
I got away with only using pepperoni. He ate the whole thing, and didn’t ask where the protein was.
I don’t blame him. It really looked delicious.
2 cups whole wheat pasta, cooked
1/2 cup tomato sauce
1 oz fresh mozzarella, chopped
1/2 tablespoon italian seasoning
15 slices pepperoni, cut in 4′s
2 tablespoons parmesan cheese
1/2 cup provolone cheese
Combine pasta and sauce in a bowl. Top with fresh mozzarella, seasoning, parmesan, and half of the pepperoni. Add on provolone cheese and remaining pepperoni.
Set under broiler until cheese is melted, about 30-60 seconds.
About 20 minutes after finishing, Mr. How Sweet piped up,‘You know, that was really good. But, I just don’t think there was enough protein in it for me.’
Tonight’s meal will consist of a giant bowl of meat, labeled ‘dinner.’