My husband looked at thirty years of my life and asked what I had ever really achieved besides a nice row of daisies.
For decades, I supported his obsession with barbecue, a world of hickory smoke and expensive gadgets where his passion was a “craft.”
My own dream was a Master Gardener course, a chance to turn my love for the earth into a real skill.
He called it frivolous, a waste of money to play in the dirt. This from a man who spent a fortune on a temperature-controlled meat chamber.
He would soon learn that the most brutal revenge is grown slowly in the dark, nurtured with kitchen scraps, and served with a side of his own secret-weapon barbecue sauce.
The Weight of a Brochure: A Dream Folded in Thirds
The brochure was heavy in my hand, the glossy paper cool against my palm. It felt substantial, like a diploma or a deed to a piece of property. For three weeks, it had lived in the bottom of my purse, tucked inside a worn copy of *Middlemarch*, a secret I carried with me to the library where I worked part-time, to the grocery store, to the DMV. The University Extension Master Gardener Program. Twelve weeks. Two thousand dollars. A lifetime of daydreams condensed into a tri-fold pamphlet.
I had the money. Every extra dollar from shelving books, from helping patrons find their tax forms, from the occasional freelance indexing job I picked up—it all went into an online savings account I’d named “My Turn.” It had taken two years to reach the goal, two years of turning down lunch with my library friends and brewing my own coffee instead of buying it. The total sat there, a defiant little number on my phone screen: $2,147.38.
My garden was the one place that was unequivocally mine. Not the house, which was really Tom’s domain, a backdrop for his life. Not the kitchen, which was a functional space for producing meals on his schedule. But the quarter-acre of land behind the house—that was my canvas. My unruly, chaotic, beautiful canvas. And this course… this was the key. It wasn’t about planting prettier petunias. It was about soil science, botany, integrated pest management. It was about turning a passion into a craft.
I smoothed the brochure on the kitchen table, the smiling, sun-hatted woman on the cover beaming up at me. Tonight was the night. Enrollment opened online at 9 p.m. It was 7:30. I just needed to tell Tom. Not ask, I reminded myself. Tell.
The Barbecue King on His Throne
Tom was in his natural habitat: the worn, brown leather recliner, feet up, a copy of *Smoke & Fire Quarterly* resting on his chest. The television murmured about sports scores, but his attention was on the magazine’s glossy spread of a brisket with a bark so dark and textured it looked like petrified wood. To my husband, this was art.
“Tom?” I said, holding the brochure like a peace offering.
He grunted, not looking up. “Hmm?”
“I have something I want to talk to you about. It’s important to me.” That got his attention. He lowered the magazine, his expression a mixture of mild curiosity and impatience, the look he gets when he’s been interrupted mid-rib-rub-formulation. I laid the brochure on the ottoman in front of him.
He picked it up, his thick fingers seeming clumsy against the delicate paper. His eyes scanned the front, then he flipped it open. I watched his brow furrow, the corners of his mouth tighten. The silence stretched, filled only by the low drone of the TV. I could feel my own heartbeat, a frantic little bird in my chest.
He tossed it back on the ottoman. “Two thousand dollars?” He didn’t just say it; he scoffed it. The sound was a small, sharp thing that pricked the bubble of my hope. “To learn how to play in the dirt? Sue, that’s ridiculous. We can’t afford that right now. It’s frivolous.”
An Investment in Smoke
The word “frivolous” hung in the air between us, acrid and choking. It was a word he’d used before, to describe the heirloom tomato seeds I’d ordered, the antique watering can I’d bought at a flea market, the very idea of spending a Saturday weeding instead of power-washing the driveway.
“It’s not playing, Tom,” I said, my voice dangerously steady. “It’s a legitimate certification. It’s my dream.” I took a breath. “And what do you mean *we* can’t afford it? You just spent fifteen hundred dollars on a temperature-controlled ‘brisket-aging’ chamber!”
His face hardened. “That’s completely different! That’s an investment in my craft. It has a purpose.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, as if a crowd of adoring fans were gathered on the lawn. “People come from all over for my ribs. Who’s going to come over to look at your petunias?”
The injustice of it was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I looked at this man, this stranger in his throne, and saw thirty years of my life distilled into one, dismissive question. Thirty years of hauling coolers, of smiling at his barbecue buddies, of smelling like hickory smoke when all I wanted to smell was damp earth. Thirty years of his passions being treated as “crafts” and mine as “hobbies.”
“So your hobby is a legitimate craft, but mine is a frivolous waste of money?” The words came out colder than I intended. “The only difference is that yours is the one you care about. I have supported your obsession for thirty years, Tom. I have planned our vacations around brisket competitions. Our garage is a shrine to smoked meat. And the one time—the *one time*—I ask for the same, I’m dismissed.”
He just shook his head, picking up his magazine as if the conversation was over. As if I was over. “It’s not the same, Sue. It’s just not.”
The Click of a Keyboard
I walked away. There was nothing else to say. The rage was a hot, molten thing in my gut, but on the surface, I was ice. I went into the small spare room I used as an office, the floral wallpaper a cheerful mockery of my mood. I sat down at the desk and opened my laptop.
The screen glowed in the dark room. I navigated to the university’s website, my fingers moving with a will of their own. The course page loaded. *Master Gardener Certification Program. Fall Semester. Enrollment opens at 9:00 PM EST.*
My clock read 8:58. Two minutes. I could hear Tom in the other room, laughing at something on TV. The sound grated on my nerves. For a dizzying second, his voice echoed in my head. *Frivolous. Ridiculous. A waste.* I almost closed the laptop. It would be easier to just let it go, to retreat back into the quiet resentment that had become my life’s wallpaper.
But then I thought of the soil under my fingernails, the scent of crushed mint leaves, the singular joy of seeing a seed I planted break through the earth. That was real. That was mine. He couldn’t call that frivolous.
The clock ticked over to 9:00. I clicked “Enroll Now.” The form was straightforward. Name. Address. Payment information. I pulled out my debit card, the one linked to my “My Turn” account. The numbers felt like a declaration of independence. I clicked “Submit.” A confirmation page appeared. *Congratulations, Susan. Welcome to the Master Gardener Program.*
It was done. I hadn’t asked. I had just done it. The rebellion was quiet, just the click of a keyboard in a silent house, but it felt as loud as a revolution.
A Plot of One’s Own: The Black Tumbler
Two weeks later, a large, flat-packed box arrived. I’d ordered it the day after my first class, a lecture on the glorious, microbial world of soil composition. It was a compost tumbler, a sleek, black plastic barrel mounted on a metal frame, designed to be spun with a handle. It was, in its own way, a piece of serious equipment. An investment in my craft.
I assembled it myself on the back patio, the hex wrench feeling solid and purposeful in my hand. Tom came out, holding a mug of coffee, and watched me for a moment.
“What in God’s name is that?” he asked, eyeing the contraption as if it were an alien pod that had crash-landed next to my rose bushes.
“It’s a composter,” I said, not looking up from tightening a bolt. “For the garden. It’s a closed system. No smell, no pests.”
He grunted. “Looks like a cement mixer for hamsters. You’re going to be putting garbage in there? Right next to the garage?” He gestured toward his holy temple, where his smokers and grills and the infamous brisket-ager were stored. The implication was clear: my garbage machine was encroaching on his sacred ground.
“It’s not garbage, Tom. It’s kitchen scraps. Organic matter. It’s going to make the most incredible soil.” I gave the handle a test turn. The barrel spun with a satisfying, quiet rumble. He just shook his head and went back inside, leaving me with my new machine. I patted its smooth, black side. It felt like an ally.
The Naming of the Worms
The next Saturday, another package arrived, much smaller this time. A breathable canvas bag, writhing with a faint, internal energy. My red wigglers. A pound of them. I’d learned in class that they were the undisputed champions of composting, capable of eating their own weight in organic matter every single day.
I opened the bag and gently tipped the squirming mass into the tumbler, along with shredded newspaper and a week’s worth of coffee grounds, eggshells, and vegetable peels. They were fascinating, a tangle of reddish-brown life, disappearing immediately into the bedding I’d made for them.
A wicked little thought sparked in my mind. Tom was getting ready for the annual “Smoke on the Water” competition. He’d been obsessing over it for weeks, studying the roster of his rivals. His chief nemesis was a man from Tennessee named Mike, a hulking, bearded giant who ran a place called “Big Mike’s Smokehouse” and had beaten Tom for the grand prize two years running.
I looked down at the churning life in my bin. A particularly fat, active worm was working its way through a piece of wilted lettuce. “Well, hello there,” I whispered to it. “You look like a real champion.” I grinned. “I think I’ll call you ‘Big Mike’s Smokehouse.’”
A giddy, subversive thrill ran through me. It was a private joke, a silent rebellion no one else would ever understand. I found another energetic specimen. “And you can be ‘Smokin’ J’s BBQ Shack.’” By the time I closed the lid, I had named a half-dozen of my most productive earthworms after Tom’s most-feared competitors.
The Molasses Standard
The week before “Smoke on the Water” was always a high-stress affair. The house filled with the smell of esoteric spice rubs. Tom paced the kitchen, muttering about humidity levels and wood-chip density. He was a surgeon preparing for a major operation. His sanctum, the garage, was off-limits.
His process was a rigid, almost religious ritual, and at its heart was his secret-weapon barbecue sauce. He made it from scratch the night before every competition, and the key ingredient was a specific, artisanal brand of molasses called Black Stallion. It was thick and dark, with a smoky, bitter edge he claimed was irreplaceable. He always kept one, unopened jar in reserve, stored on a metal shelf in the garage, right next to the industrial-sized containers of paprika and cayenne.
On Wednesday night, two days before he was scheduled to leave, I went into the garage under the pretense of finding my garden shears. The air was thick with the scent of hickory and anxiety. The jar of Black Stallion sat on its shelf, a dark glass monument to my husband’s obsession.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was no longer a private joke. This was an act of war. My hand trembled as I reached out, my fingers closing around the cool, heavy glass. I looked around the garage—at the smokers that cost more than my car, the racks of custom-made tongs, the new brisket-ager humming in the corner. *Frivolous.* The word echoed in the quiet space. I tucked the jar under my arm, hid it behind a stack of old paint cans in the darkest corner of the garage, and walked back into the house, my face a perfect mask of calm.
A Frantic Search for Black Stallion
The explosion came, as I knew it would, on Thursday evening. I was in the living room, ostensibly reading a book on companion planting, but every nerve was attuned to the sounds coming from the garage. First, the clanking of pots and pans. Then, the sound of shelves being scraped. Then, a low, guttural curse.
“Sue!” His voice was a roar. “Have you seen my molasses?”
I walked to the kitchen door, arranging my face into a placid mask of mild confusion. “What molasses, honey?”
“The Black Stallion! The one I always keep on the shelf. It’s gone!” He was standing in the middle of the garage, his hands on his hips, his face flushed. The place was a disaster zone, with spice containers and bags of wood chips pulled onto the floor.
“Gone? That’s strange,” I said, my voice full of innocent wonder. “Are you sure you know where you left it?”
“Of course I know where I left it! I always leave it in the same spot. It’s been there for six months!” He started pulling things off the shelf now, his movements frantic and clumsy. “Did you move it? Did you use it for something?”
“Tom, why on earth would I use your special competition molasses?” I asked, letting a note of gentle offense creep into my tone. “I wouldn’t dream of touching your things.” I stood there for a moment, watching him tear apart his own temple in a desperate, panicked search. It was a terrible, wonderful thing to see. “I’m sure it’ll turn up,” I said sweetly, before turning and walking back to my book.
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