Husbands and Hobbies

I married a serial hobby starter. Maybe the more accurate term would be hobby abandoner. Our home is filled with the ghosts of hobbies past, remnants of projects collecting dust in the basement, attic, and shed.

First there was the cigar box guitar. Then there was wood carving. Gardening left me with a 5’x’5 trench in the middle of my backyard, that now serves as a dust bath for my chickens. I’m still finding plastic bottles from the failed batch of home brew, and I will never be able to rid my house of the flour left behind by the baking phase.

Our “Garden”

You would think by now I would be used to tripping over messes and tools and unfinished projects. But when I walked into my living room to find a large, erect condom displayed amongst my carefully curated fall decorations, I about fell over.

“Ummmm…Babe? Please explain. Quickly.”

“I’m proving yeast,” he responded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’m sorry, let’s pretend I have no idea why you need yeast, or why there is now a phallus in my living room.”

“I started making my own hard cider today! The book I’m using says that condoms are the best way to seal the jar. Don’t worry, it will only be there for 3 or 4 days.”


Totally normal. Totally fine. It’s fine. We’re all fine.

My dear readers, they tell you a lot of things when you get married: “It takes work”, “Honor and Cherish”, “Communication is everything”, etc. I’m here to tell you that while all of this is true, it hardly prepares you for what it means to share your life with a person. They don’t tell you about the busted cigar boxes, the dirt pits, or the flour bombs.

Although I tend to complain about these things (and by complain, I mean whine, nag, yell, and give the silent treatment. Because that’s how adults handle their problems), every once and a while I’m proven wrong.

The garden yielded radishes and potatoes that we all enjoyed as a family. The flour gave rise to biscotti, baguettes, focaccia, and challah bread that was well worth the mess. And while I cringe every time I catch a glimpse of the jar wearing a condom hat (which I managed move out of sight, on the top of the refrigerator), I can’t help but smile…and hope that the future batch of hard cider will make dealing with the next hobby a little more tolerable.

Love Always,


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