What I’ve Learned Being Married to a Midwesterner

There’s so much more than cheese

Midwesterners are nice. This is a universal truth. If you disagree, you have never spent much time with one. Even people in Chicago are leaps and bounds kinder than their coastal equivalents. I don’t understand why or how it came to be — it just is.

I am married to a Midwesterner and life with him is giant Nice-Off (see video below), but he’s the only one competing. I hail from the Northeast and the concept of going out of my way for others is as foreign to me as eating Lutefisk soup.

My husband grew up outside of Minneapolis. When I took my maiden voyage to this far-off land many moons ago, I wasn’t just struck by the 10,000,000,000 lakes, exotic delicacies like the inimitable hot dish (cibus caldus or casserole), or the people out for a stroll in -60 degrees as if it were a mild spring day. It actually reached -60 in 1996.

I was awestruck by how kind and considerate Midwestern folks are in all aspects of daily life. There’s a palpable, generous spirit woven into the culture, which is remarkable given the hideous eight month’s of winter. Snow in April? You betcha!

While the rest of the country has enjoyed a centuries-old epidemic of self-centered, self-serving, fuck-thy-neighbor approach to life, the Midwest remains steadfastly committed to kindness.

Sure, there is often a strange song and dance around expressing true feelings resulting in a quagmire of odd social dynamics where people would rather choke on years of bottled-up resentment than say what’s really on their mind — but never mind that.

Examples of Midwest Nice:

A person working at the local grocery store offered to give me his great, great, great-aunt’s recipe for a chicken and corn hash-brown bake when he noticed I had both chicken and corn in my basket.

He wrote out all of the ingredients and baking instructions and the 12 people standing in line behind me were not bothered by this at all. In fact, they all chimed in with their own variations of the fabled dish. I felt like I had descended into The Truman Show.

I had no choice but to make this 12 billion calorie meal as the guilt alone would haunt me until the end of days. If I didn’t make the dish because I’m dead inside, and the stranger at the grocery store somehow found out (word travels fast in those parts), no offense would be taken and I would be invited to his home where he’d make it for me.

Once, a bank teller apologized profusely for the limp $20 bills he gave me when I asked to break a $100 (must have been before credit cards or Venmo existed). He was so appalled by this exchange that he offered crisp bills out of his own wallet and apologized 300 more times for the inconvenience.

You will not find flashy (or stylish) clothes in the Midwest nor will you see any flashy cars. I once overheard a man apologizing at a gas station for his “over-the-top” Nissan because it was dark green — not gray, black or navy.

If a midwesterner’s arm got severed, they’d make a tourniquet out of their flailing tendons before asking someone for a ride to the hospital. “I’m fine,” they’d bleat as they quietly dragged themselves to a different room to bleed out. Nothing irks a Midwesterner more than drawing attention to themselves.

Examples from my marriage:

Me: “Happy birthday husband! What special dinner would you like me to prepare tonight?” (He gets asked once a year — remember, I’m from the Northeast.)

Husband: “Oh gosh, whatever’s easiest for you, dear!”

Me rolling my eyes: “How about chicken piccata, a nice mushroom risotto, or traditional paella?” (Blatantly ignoring his request for easy)

Husband: “Hmm…how about tacos?”

Me: “For the love of Minnetonka! Tacos? It’s your birthday, do better.”

The man got his tacos.

Conversation about my birthday:

Husband: “What would you like for your special dinner, dear?”

Me: “I’ve been planning it in my head all week. Caviar to start, some of that really good champagne (not prosecco, gross), and maybe a provencale-style seafood dish!”

Husband: “Okay, so not tacos, right?”

Us picking a dinner spot:

Me: “Where do you feel like going tonight?”

Husband: “Whatever you’d like, seriously — I don’t care. Dinner is more important to you than it is to me.”

Me: “I married an alien, so I’ll try to find a place that serves alien food.”

Husband at dinner: “My chicken seems slightly undercooked.”

Me: “Waiter!! SOS!!” pointing at the pale pink mess on my husband’s plate.

Waiter: “Is something the matter with the chicken, sir?”

Husband: “No, it’s fine. Delicious actually!”

Me: “It just clucked.”

Husband: “It’s just how I like it!” he says gagging and crying.

Fast forward three hours and husband assumes the fetal position in the bathroom for the remainder of the night, but at least the waiter was not inconvenienced. Whew!

Being married to a man who hails from the vast swath of central land known as the Midwest, provides the perfect balance to my sharp edges that have been chiseled by the calloused hands of Northeastern insouciance. It also provides myriad opportunities to expand my gastronomical tendencies.

Ludefisk mac n’ cheese anyone? You betcha!