Today would have been Ray's 39th birthday (and is Martin Rambusch's, happy b'day Martin!).
On his 29th birthday, our first together, I made Ray dinner. That's a biiiiig understatement. We both talked about this meal for years.
Ray and I had been together for less than 3 months, and had just returned from our extremely memorable motorcycle trip up from LA to SF. I was freelancing and had a lot of free time in my schedule, so I spent the day shopping and cooking. I cooked Indian food, some of my favorites, and made enough for a good-sized party. Chana saag, bengan bhartha, some fancy chicken curry, daal, naan and poori, homemade raita. It was pretty obscene.
At that time Ray was a carpenter, working out past Livermore, so he'd leave the house at 4:30 each morning. That day he came home to a tiny apartment filled with food. Candles everywhere, tablecloth spread out over the floor. We sat on the floor and ate and ate, with our hands of course, in honor of our first dates. And ate some more. Then, finally sated, Ray pronounced it one of the best meals he'd ever eaten. And with an absolutely beatific smile, he gently slid sideways to the floor, and fell soundly asleep. And I sat amidst the wreckage of my romantic dinner, and thought about what true happiness means.
Happy birthday my love.