and people in both inner and outer circles marvel that we've been together for ten whole years. I can't speak for him, but would imagine that it's the cooking that keeps him coming back. As for me, my reasons are religious, and I'm not just referring to his "Jesus Christ good looks".
I mean, where on earth would I ever find another man who eats neither pork nor shellfish, and refuses to work on Saturdays? And loves Jesus on top of it all? Even the most rabbinical Messianic Jew I know wouldn't let a plate of pork lo mein get past him, not that I'm saying there's anything wrong with that. To each his own, etc. But still...
I can't give you a better example of the devoutness of Mr. Little than the story of our second Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On our first Yom Kippur, I begged the man not to go to work that day, but he kept insisting there was "no way in God's green earth" he could miss a day of work, so he went to work anyway and fell into a hole and broke some ribs, subsequenly missing several days of work.
So on the second Yom Kippur he wasn't taking any chances. All was going smoothly until about 2 p. m. or so on the second day. We were both starving and trying to act like we were having a decent time, and just then a UPS truck pulled up and handed the man a big box that turned out to be a case of "Gibbles Potato Chips", a favorite of his from "back home" that was sent to him by his excellent grandmother, God rest her soul.
In spite of the overwhelming temptation, Mr. Little set the Gibbles away until the sun went down. I was killing time, though, looking over a bag of the chips, trying to keep the lust out of my heart, when I came upon some small writing on the bag that said something like this:
"While all the other chip companies fry their chips in vegetable oil, here at Gibbles we fry our chips in 100% pork fat just like they did in the good old days!" or something like that. I put my head in my hands and said, "Oh no...." and spent a couple of hours pondering the moral dilemna of whether or not I should point out the fine print. I decided not to say anything. Let him enjoy his Gibbles.
Not long before sunset, though, he came into the room where I was, holding a bag of Gibbles, with the saddest look I've ever seen on a man. "Look," he said, pointing to the fine print.
Eve-like, I encouraged him to go ahead, "It's no big deal." But Mr. Little was stronger than Adam, and the Gibbles Potato Chips never left their bags.
How many men would be that devout?