Byronikins: The Good, The Great, and The Ugly

This blog could have a sub-heading: My Husband, the CandyMan

I strongly believe, after the events of the last week, that candymaking may be an inherited trait, specifically passed down through the paternal line. Byron's dad, B.N., is a fantastic candymaker. It is a skill he has honed over the years and that I have appreciated in the years since I've known Byron. Yum.

But, I had no idea what skills lay lurking in my own husband. I came home from work the other night to find the smell of candy in the air and Byron stirring in the kitchen (two things that make me VERY happy.) He had made peanut brittle, with the help of his father (who stayed on the phone with him during the process saying things like "Candy One to Candy Two, what's your status?"

However, the first batch wasn't entirely successful. (As you are aiming for "brittleness" with any candy in the brittle family)

Batch numbers 2, 3, and 4 (the last being made Sunday morning before church--what a trooper!) turned out beautifully. I dare say as good as B.N.'s would have been...?

And, as a result, the treats we gave out to our friends looked and tasted spectacular. All thanks to the genetic makeup of Byron C. Williams, son of B.N. Williams, a.k.a. Candy One.

FYI, the tags above were also made by Byron. He's putting me to shame.

Byron also has other skills that he has showcased this holiday season:

He does make me dinner sometimes. (VERY rarely, but delicious and picture-worthy, just the same!!)

He takes me to cultural events, to broaden my horizons and help me become more sophisticated.

Obviously, from the look on my face, this plan has been a success so far!

And, he encourages/forces me to write our Christmas cards (handmade by him, as noted in a previous blog) when it is obvious from my outfit that I'd prefer to take a Sunday afternoon nap. But I was glad later, when they were done!

But lest you think life with Byron is all good times and brittle madness, let me tell you a little about the dark side of Byron. I got out of bed the other morning, only to look down at this:

Byron's sweaty, smelly work socks lying right where my precious face and body had been scant minutes before. Byron erupted into a giggling fit, confessing that he had put them there the night before as I was coming to bed, to be funny. However, I came into the room when it was already dark and didn't see the socks. Instead of admitting that the joke was up, he must have giggled himself to sleep (not caring what MY sleep would be like, with those things practically shoved up my nose) just imagining how much funnier it would be in the morning. Indeed, it was funny to one of us.

So maybe the brittle and the socks balance out.