Yesterday, while he and his writing partner were working at our apartment, Chris made carrot soup. He had been to the farmer's market a few days before, where he bought carrots in an array of gorgeous autumn colors: purple, red, orange and yellow. He sauteed onions and butter, slow cooked the carrots, added orange juice and cream. And after a long afternoon of writing (while I did little else than read and nap in the bedroom), Chris managed to serve me the perfect meal.
This raises the question, how does one define the word, "provider."
Two years ago, Chris was away on a 6-month regional gig. I was fine, but I lived on yogurt and granola. I struggled to do much more than boil water or scramble eggs. I walked out the door in tennis shoes while it rained and then wondered why my feet were cold and wet at the end of the day.
Chris keeps me warm, and safe and well-fed. He reminds me to curl my fingers away from the blade as I'm cutting an apple; to wear a hat; to buy lotion, and dish soap, and bread. He paints walls and builds shelves. He always manages to make me smile.