The Kama Sutra Cookbook: Marital ‘adventures’ in thrift shopping

Looking to put some spice in your marriage and on the dinner table? Try the “Split Bamboo.” the "Crouching Tiger” or the “Congress of a Cow.”

Some call it “flea market hopping” or “thrift shopping.” Others refer to it as “yard-saling.” When it involves my spouse, I call it torture.

My bride of 20 years, who is always looking for a bargain, enjoys Saturday mornings in the Spring hopping from thrift store to yard sale to bargain bin – with just a little antiquing thrown in for extra misery.

The problem? I am a hopeless consumer and a hoarder with no self-control. I collect cookbooks and old bottles and outdoor magazines and anything rusty—let’s just say that the antique store is not a safe place for me to be unsupervised.

“I’ve got to have that!” I exclaim, at every thrift store or bargain bin we visit.

“You don’t even know what it is!” the spouse argues.

“I don’t care, I still need it!”

“You don’t need that,” the wife tells me, and she will repeat that phrase often throughout the day.

By now, the local store employees know her well, and they don’t even bother to greet her anymore when the bell chimes to announce our entrance—but they love me.

“Come on in, Mr. DeWitt! We’ve got some great new antique fishing gear, some old tools, and a whole stack of National Geographic magazines just for you!”

“You don’t need any of that,” You-Know-Who says.

“Come back when your wife isn’t around,” they whisper. “We’ll save these for you!”

Each shopping trip is like an adventure down memory lane, where I am once again a child begging Momma to shell out cash for a new toy.

“My Granny used to cook with one of those!” I exclaim at one stop.

“My Momma used to spank me with one of those!” I cry at another.

“I once stole one of those from my Dad’s tacklebox!” I confess.

Before you go misjudging the lass as a miser and penny pincher who doesn’t love her husband, her primary fault is that, while she appreciates fine antiques like furniture and china, she doesn’t have an appreciation for the more interesting historical treasures that one can find in such places—the vintage 1970s Tupperware that has served a thousand meals, the “whatnots,” the “bric-a-brac,” the classic beer signs that would look great in my man cave. And I have never met a faded yellow Nat Geo magazine that I didn’t rescue and re-home.

It’s probably a good thing my spouse has more self-control than I do, because when she does break down and buy something it often has dangerous results.

Bless her heart, it was a used copy of The Kama Sutra. For those of you who go to my church and don’t know, this classic book, originally written in ancient Indian Sanskrit, is an ancient text on sexuality, eroticism, and physical fulfillment. Let’s just say, in front of the children, that it is a vividly detailed, creative and informative how-to guide with a lot of ideas and techniques and leave it at that.  

This one was missing its cover and sealed in a plastic bag for modesty sake. The only page visible was the Table of Contents.

“Look dear, it’s an exotic cookbook,” the wife called to me from across the store. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to try some different ethnic dishes? I am off this weekend and I can cook you something different.”

“Honey,” I said after one quick glance. “I don’t think that’s what you think it is.”

“Oh, sure it is. There’s some seafood dishes in here: ‘The Crab’ and ‘The Frog.’ I ain’t eating no frog legs, but I’ll cook them for you, and I’ll try the crab.”

“Honey, that book is not what you think it is,” I try to lower my voice, as the store associate comes closer. “Just put it down and walk way. Let’s look over here at something else.”

“I don’t know, some of this stuff is pretty weird, like this ‘Elephant’ and ‘Butterfly,’ but there are some vegetarian dishes I wouldn’t mind trying, like this ‘Lotus Bloom’ and ‘Split Bamboo.” I don’t know about that ‘Scorpion” or ‘Crouching Tiger’ – sounds spicy—but the ‘Congress of a Cow’ might be good for Sunday dinner when the family is over.”

By this time the nice older lady behind the cash register just sat there listening, with this odd look on her face. She looked like she might have been a fellow Southern Baptist, so I didn’t protest further or bother to enlighten. I just smiled as the wife paid $2.50 and took away her new ‘cookbook’ in a brown paper bag.

I’m really not sure how all of this will play out. Perhaps, when the wife realizes her mistake she will laugh it off and be inspired to prepare us some exotic new Indian dishes.

Or, maybe another form of inspiration will strike and I’ll wake up in a full-body cast, unable to turn my head more than 22 degrees in either direction, with a large smile on my face.

But when I get back on my feet. I’m sure those nice ladies at the thrift store are still holding some old Tupperware and beer signs, just for me.