By Melinda Swan
A recent Columbus Dispatch article on the couple who straddled the Buckeye/Wolverine divide evoked memories of the critique I never wanted to hear from my professors in journalism school.
“You buried the lead.”
Don’t misunderstand. The article was light and fun, exploring how two people from the polar opposite ends of the Midwest’s greatest football rivalry have survived 40 years of marriage without detectable homicidal ideation. The wife from the school up North even graciously acquiesced to raise five Ohio State child fans with her Scarlett-obsessed spouse.
All good. And then, the kicker hit me. Right at the end. Apparently, this couple does separate during the Big Game at times, with her drifting away from the roomful of ever-loving Shoe-goers to find a place of safety for her maize and blue-clad backside.
But her loving hubby will hunt her down because – wait for it – he likes to make sure she has her nachos.
There it is. The secret to marital bliss, the recipe for overcoming even the most deep-seated, divisive and painful issues: Tortilla chips smothered in cheese whiz, guac, ground beef, sour cream and maybe a couple of jalapenos for good measure.
My husband, who also bleeds Scarlett and Grey, and rapidly transforms from kind Dr. Jekyll to xxx-bombing Mr. Hyde during High Holy Pigskin Saturday, understood this peace offering instinctively. He is a foodie. Foodies automatically default to thinking that all differences magically resolve, or I guess dissolve is a more accurate term, through mouthwatering munching. In his case, this adage rings especially true if the chewing entails pizza or donuts.
Less food obsessed, I marveled at the simple elegance of the sacrifice. A little corn, some tomatoes – wham, bam, forget three hours of screaming, crying, cursing and furniture-beating. Gone is the sore loser and the strutting winner. Love and harmony restored.
At least for another 364 days.
Nachos. Wondering if we should Door Dash a few jumbo platters to the White House?