Column: Our "mixed marriage" creates outdoor dining woes

Ours is a mixed marriage. I like to eat outside in the warm weather. He doesn’t.

It’s a minor quibble, to be sure. Not any kind of deal breaker, obviously; we’ve been happily hitched for 28 years. But summer is so fleeting. Shouldn’t we take every chance to be outdoors?

That’s not Paul’s problem. He enjoys working in the yard, hiking and napping in a hammock. We spend a week each year on the coast up along Penobscot Bay, and Paul will take his morning tea on the deck, and spend hours reading out-of-doors there.

In fact, he would be the first to tell you that he is outside, rain, shine, or snow, six or more times a day walking our dogs and tending to our chickens.

He just doesn’t like eating in nature.

I think I know the reason why. It can be messy. We may go on one picnic a year—Paul is generous that way—and if the sandwich I’ve made leaks or dribbles, my good husband recoils. I don’t take it personally, as the same thing happens in restaurants. Paul is fond of meatball subs, which is a very sloppy dish. He only remembers this when he gets his sandwich. Luckily, Paul is not self-conscious about eating his meatball mess with a knife and fork.

His neatness is one of the things that drew me to him. I, not surprisingly, since opposites do attract, go about life rather haphazardly. I’m forever dropping bits of food onto myself, which I luckily manage to remove before anyone sees them.

So, it goes without saying that I never pack anything that drips when we dine in the wilderness. But, sometimes, bread is crumbly, or I’ve added too much mustard, or the lettuce pops out when Paul squeezes his sandwich. Oh, dear. 

Here is a fun fact. When we pick up our empty plates from the dinner table, there is often a perfect ring of crumbs on my place mat. This never happens to Paul.

I think my husband doesn’t like the wind flapping napkins around, and would rather not deal with bugs. Paul doesn’t like having the sun in his eyes. Well, I’m not happy when my lemonade is dive-bombed by bumblebees either. The difference is, I think the joys of dining outdoors are worth the inconveniences.

I’m more sensitive to hot weather than Paul is, so when we eat at home during the summer, I do prefer eating outside. We have a deck and a front porch, one facing north and the other, south, so we have options for a range of weather situations. I know Paul prefers the porch, so I’ll suggest we go there whenever possible. However, it’s dangerous to dine out there during any campaign season. Candidates on a mission don’t care if we’re eating; in fact, they see us as a captive audience. Really, do they think they’ll get our votes after interrupting our repast?

Especially my rare alfresco experience?

I remember, with fondness, the time the fire alarm went off at our local Panera Bread. We grabbed our food and found a table outside.There was no fire, so we just kept eating. That’s what it took to get Paul outside—and, no, I didn’t pull the alarm.

My husband is rather smug about his ability to avoid the Panera “terrace.” When we visit in the middle of winter, he’ll often say, “Are we eating outside today?”

I don’t mind so much about Panera, because the tables are set up on the edge of the parking lot. It’s really not all that inviting. An excellent, cozy seafood restaurant in our town, however, has a fine outdoor seating area. Although a water view would make it perfect, it does face a wide field, which is quite pretty. Whenever it is warm enough to eat outside there, I want to. Indoors, the restaurant can be busy, crowded and noisy. Outside—well, there’s that field, and the sky, and hopefully a nice breeze.

You’d think this would be a given at this particular location. Not for Paul. He usually agrees to eat outside there, but he’s not happy about it.

Luckily, I am the cook in our household, so I can usually get my way at home. Paul knows that there is one day a year that we positively, absolutely, have to eat outside if at all possible: the Fourth of July.

Sometimes we eat outside twice on that day!

Last year, we were on vacation, so we had our Independence Day lunch on a dock. It was sloppy lobster rolls, too. But a rule’s a rule.

I grew up eating outside a lot. My father’s sister lived in town and our families alternated hosting clambakes and cookouts. We also went to Newport, R.I. frequently in the spring (we lived only 15 miles away in Massachusetts), eating our lunch, which was usually ham sandwiches, on the bold, rocky cliffs. In the summer, we went to a favorite beach nearly every Sunday, where Dad grilled hot dogs for us once we emerged from the wild surf.

I have a picture of Paul and me at my aunt’s house, during a cookout. He looks pretty happy. I think it was taken before we started eating; before, that is, the mustard had a chance to squirt.