It was back when the world still made sense.

We were newlyweds.

I am not sure when a couple stops being newlyweds, but I am sure we still were newlyweds.

My wife had a job in which she worked days. I attended college during the day and then worked the graveyard shift (11 p.m. to 7 a.m.) at my job.

Because of our hectic schedules, we didn’t see one another very often. We got along great.

I would catch a glimpse of my wife on occasion in the kitchen as I quaffed a glass of Tang. I drank Tang because it was what the astronauts drank.

She began to respond to my infrequent presence with a “Hey, you, what’s-his-name. Don’t forget to take out the garbage.”

Because of this, I decided that we needed a night together. I checked my schedule. I was set to work the weekend, but I had Thursday off. I checked with my lovely bride and she seemed excited by the prospect. I think she said something like, “Huh? Yeah, OK. Whatever.”

I had visions of us getting out some old records and listening to the scratches while we did some serious smooching.

We gave the maid the night off.

All day long my thoughts were of my wife and my home.

I drove home from college prepared to answer my wife in case she asked, “What did you learn in college today?” I had learned that those “No Parking” signs mean what they say. At least being towed meant that my car got good mileage for a bit.

I was a little late getting home. It was 0-dark 30. The house was ablaze with artificial light.

I parked the car in our leaning garage. I called it the weather shed because I could always tell which way the wind was blowing.

I walked to the house. There was that extra spring in my step that men get when things are going well.

I walked into the house.

My wife came out of the kitchen.

She was beyond beautiful and had a smile like a wave across a slop-pail.

She had been cooking.

I could tell because she was wearing her “I’ve been cooking” apron and she was carrying one of those large forks that cooks use to slow the meat down enough so that it can be carved.

“Hi, honey,” she said seductively, still unable to remember my name.

I moved toward her with my arms out and my lips in pre-kiss formation.

She stopped my advance by pointing the fork at my nose. There was a glob of some kind of mystery meat impaled on its tines. Food tastes best when eaten with my own fork, but this meat was a glowing green in color. It frightened me.

“Here, taste this,” said my bride.

My feeble mind issued an “Awww” memo to all the other parts of the body.

My bride had spent all afternoon cooking up a special surprise for me. She probably made my favorite, although I didn’t recall enjoying any particular form of glowing green meat.

Even though my need for glowing green meat wasn’t that great, I opened my mouth and she jammed the glowing green meat into my gaping maw.

Suddenly I became a rider on the storm. I can only describe the flavor as not unlike the smell of dead carp after it has spent a few days in the blazing sun.

I thought of many things that I could do, but I quickly decided that I had better do only two of them.

I loved my wife, so I chewed the food as few times as possible and swallowed.

Up to this time of my life, I had not considered eating to be a life-threatening habit. I hadn’t been so scared since the day I was attacked by a waitress wielding a tater tot.

I had become a broken man, mired in misery. The way to a man’s heartburn is through his stomach. I tried to smile, but I wanted to count my teeth first. I quickly formed SPCAB — the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Al Batt

“How was it?” asked my wife.

My follicles squirmed. I was unable to form words, but my eyes shouted. My stomach went from 0 to 60 in digestive disorder miles per hour in record time. Finally, I was able to let out an agonizing scream like my wife would do in a room full of snakes

“Just as I thought,” she said. “It’s spoiled.”

I could have cried, but my wife beat me to it.

I emerged from this unpleasant experience with a new understanding.

I had learned that love dies of starvation, not indigestion.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.