When Eric and I had been married about eight weeks, we went back to my house in Cottonwood Heights to pack up a few things I'd left behind and bring them up to our home in Kaysville. My kids came to help, and while we were there, my oldest son — just out of curiosity — asked, "So how's married life? How's newlywed life going?"
I smiled and was quick to report: "Newlywed life is great! Everything's amazing." The kids, curious, pushed further: "Have you had any arguments yet?"
I grinned and said, "Heck no."
That's when Eric paused and said, "Well… there is something I've been wanting to talk to you about."
I looked at him, surprised. "Right here? In front of the kids?"
He said, "Yeah… I figured this might be a safe space." He was joking, but I could tell he had something genuinely on his mind.
Then he said it: "Why do we have to leave the butter out on the counter with no cover? I don't like dusty butter."
"I don't like dusty butter."
I stared at him. "What??"
He explained that he'd grown up with butter always stored in the fridge — covered and cold. I explained that in my family, we left it out so it stayed soft and easy to spread. The kids started laughing. It was such a small, gloriously quirky difference. But to Eric, it was worth bringing up.
Later, back at our house in Kaysville, we came up with a compromise: a covered butter dish stored in the cupboard — soft, spreadable butter, without the dust. Problem elegantly solved.
But something else happened in that moment. We accidentally invented a language.