Food

Go Ask Dad: I love garlic; it doesn't love me.

My wife will tell you -- the smell comes out of my pores. Not just garlic breath, I suffer from garlic stank.

Posted 2023-10-13T19:28:02+00:00 - Updated 2023-10-17T10:39:00+00:00

Andrew Taylor-Troutman

, WRAL contributor

I love garlic; it doesn’t love me. Or, more honestly, other people don’t love that I eat garlic.

My wife will tell you — the smell comes out of my pores. Not just garlic breath, I suffer from garlic stank.

Ginny and I have been together over 18 years. I tell her, “You are long- suffering.” How does she suffer? Let me count the ways: obviously, my garlic stank; my habit of singing children’s songs at random times (see “Baby Beluga”); my tendency to leave dirty dishes in the sink; my propensity to inform her about an evening meeting as we sit down for supper that evening; my ability to clog up the shower drain with my hair.

For years, Ginny dreamed of double sinks in our bathroom. But now that it has come to pass, she still discovers that my intrepid hairs transverse entire continents of porcelain!

We have upgraded to a king-sized bed with matching sheets, so large that not even I can steal all of them in the night. Last weekend, we went camping and slept on a twin-size air mattress. Well, Ginny didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, I wanted to mimic a ritual from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s "Braiding Sweetgrass" and pour out the first of the coffee as a thanks offering. Ginny growled, “Give me it!”

Back to garlic: I’m reading Ross Gay’s Book of (More) Delights and he wrote of his delight regarding the first green shoots of garlic in spring. Gay has had success growing garlic for a dozen straight years; he’s batting a thousand. Actually, as he put it, the garlic is doing all the work of growing. He just hands over the bat.

I hope that Ginny wouldn’t hit me with any blunt objects. Some pitches I can hit all by myself, which helps the family team.

A sauce of crushed tomatoes, garlic and olive oil is ladled onto a tomato pie at Pizzeria Beddia in Philadelphia, Oct. 1, 2023. It may look a little different across cities in the Northeast, but this Italian American staple is always an exercise in restraint. (Hannah Beier/The New York Times)

Every Friday, I make pizza for supper. I shop for all the ingredients, make the dough, cook the pies, serve the slices and clean up. Ginny relaxes with a glass of wine and enjoys a movie with the kids. In marriage, you compromise and you sacrifice. You might sauté the mushrooms in garlic.

You sure as hell don’t publish essays about the things that you find annoying about her.

Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of Little Big Moments, a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems. Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.