Horace traveled in his RV over ten hours to come to my wedding. Horace is an eighty-five year old widower. His wife introduced my mother to my father. He was also the bearer of our first wedding gift. I was touched, until I opened the package. Inside was the George Foreman Grill, the product of endless late-night TV infomercials. I smiled profusely as I struggled to hide my disdain.

Horace’s wife had passed away six months earlier. This was probably the first wedding gift he ever purchased on his own. He was bursting with pride.

A couple of months later I was wondering what to cook for dinner, when I spied the spurned box in the corner of the kitchen. I thought “what the heck, let me take a look.” It was surprisingly easy to put together, so I took a chance and plugged it in. While it heated up, I marinated some salmon, threw it on and voila! Six minutes later I was dining on the most flakey melt-in-your mouth Atlantic Sockeye. Somehow this cheap product of infomercial land had produced magic. It cooks darn tootin’ well. Not a week goes by that I don’t use it at least two or three times. Who would have thought that an aging boxer could have delivered a one two punch. Not only did he knock me off my culinary pedestal, he changed my cooking habits as well.

Thank you darling Horace for the most perfect gift of all.