Milkshakes are pretty much the reason why Paul and I got married.

That, and the crafty conniving of some savvy staff directors, and the amazing grace and goodness of God.

But today, I’m talking about milkshakes.

You see, for two summers we were at this camp together; and one of the jobs we were “given” was being the honorable milkshake makers on Wednesday nights.

It was pretty important stuff.

So every Wednesday night we would make milkshakes together in this cozy little cabin called the “Round-up.” Okay, there were the lowly order-takers, too. But who paid attention to them?

We got to know each other as we worked, talked, joked, flirted, and raced to see who could make their milkshakes the fastest. He always cheated.

Anyways, at the end of the night, if there was milkshake leftover, we were free to enjoy it on our way back to the cabins. One small problem, we only served chocolate and strawberry milkshakes. And at that time in my life I was a very vanilla person who, as you guessed, only liked vanilla shakes. (or cookie dough, but that wasn’t an option)

So now, to tell you the rest of the story, I have to split it into two different parts. As with most of our pre-dating/dating experiences, Paul’s version of the story and my version of the story vary greatly. Ah…communication.

My version

One Wednesday night as we were finishing up, Paul asked me if I wanted a vanilla milkshake. I looked at him like he was crazy and said something like, “No, you’d have to make it. You don’t have to do that.”

He assured me that it would be no trouble, and I again reassured him that the answer was “Thanks, but no thanks.”

And went on my merry way.

Paul’s version

(as retold by me)

Paul really wanted to do something special for me. He felt so bad that I never got to enjoy the leftover milkshakes. He bet if he made me one, I would like it. And think it was so sweet. And thoughtful.

So he left the service early one Wednesday night, went to the Round-up, and made me a vanilla milkshake. I know him well enough by now to know that he put a lot of effort into making sure it was just right. Into the freezer the milkshake went to be cleverly presented later.

And the end of the night, he asked if I wanted a vanilla milkshake, probably expecting hoping that I would say, “Yes! I would love one! Oh, that would taste so good right now! I love vanilla milkshakes and it’s been so long since I’ve had one!”

At which point he would pull his oh-so-lovingly prepared one out of the freezer for me to enjoy. And possibly think he was the greatest guy ever.

Sigh. If only.

Instead he heard my reply which probably translated as, “No, it’d be silly for you to make me a vanilla milkshake. It’s dumb of me to only like vanilla anyways, and there’s no use in you going to the trouble to do that.”

And out the door I walked.

****

If only I had known! It was sitting right there less than four feet away from me!

And he was crushed. He might not use that word, but I think it’s true.

Oh dear, he didn’t even tell me about it until years later when when we were dating. And then it was my turn to be crushed.

Let’s just say I’ve had a lot to learn about interpreting questions, being sweet, and learning how to accept my guy’s overwhelming love.

****

Is there anything better than camp stories?

And this is only the beginning. Just wait until I tell you the bought thirty pints of Ben and Jerry’s for every one on staff just so he could give me my favorite kind and still be “inconspicuous” story.

Did I mention that this guy still surprises me by coming through the door with a milkshake after a long day of work and night of class?

Flavors vary.