Not one, but two blue ribbons adorn my refrigerator door.  My husband, Bob, won these treasures in the bread competition at the Barnstable County Fair.  But last year he won second prize, and I’m plain and simple mad.

My husband deserved first prize.

This year, emerging cyclically like the gypsy moth, Bob began his yearly bread baking mission and once again entered that cutthroat arena of kneaders.

But first, here’s what happened last July.  On judgment day we drove to the fair.  I was cradling Bob’s peanut cheese bread.

I saw a man with a cane awkwardly carrying a loaf of pumpernickel.

“He’s just faking,” I said to Bob, “so the judges will feel sorry for him.”

I was about to tell the man that the bread competition was yesterday but Bob steered me away.  “You’re a sick person,” he said to me.

We breathlessly entered the exhibit hall.  There was an excited little girl holding a loaf of bread upon which she had made a star out of cranberries.  I started to say that the bread entry line was in another building, knowing by the time she came back it would be too late to register.

“Don’t say anything,” Bob hissed. 

We put his bread on the baked goods table.  I lifted the Saran Wrap on a fancy entry, so just enough air could get in.

He grabbed my hand.

Two really hot days prior, Bob began to bake.  He was wearing his stupid white floppy chef’s hat, which kept pooling with water from his sweating scalp, and an apron with “In Spite of Her Name, She Never Cooks (Much Less Cleans)” on it.   

After the fourth loaf, I said, “Bob, it’s hot.  Mosquitoes are laying eggs in your hat.”

The timer, shaped like a chicken, went off with a piercing “CLUCK!” as the chicken jumped up, flipped open it’s wings, and fell off the counter.

Bob carefully took out the bread.

“See this?”  He pointed to a gorgeous hunk of cheddar dripping down one side.

“Oh yes,” I said longingly.

He opened the freezer and tossed it in.  “It’s not perfect.”  With a huge sigh, he picked up the chicken and set it’s beak for forty-five more minutes.

“It’ll all be over soon, sweetheart.”  I blotted the sweat from his mustache with a paper towel, wondering when my husband had crossed the line into ding-dong land.

At four am, I awoke to “CLUCK!”  Thunk.  Bob jumped out of bed and went trotting off to the kitchen.

Eight hours later, we were standing outside (I’d already been kicked out twice) when the judges marched out of the building.  I ran to the display case.  There, on his bread, was a red ribbon.

“This isn’t fair!”  I stomped my feet.

“Second prize means a lot to me,” he said, and he meant it.

And so last week, the baking began again. 

“Do you think the judge would like to have my grandmother’s Passover china or two hundred dollars?” I asked.

“You need to learn about competition,” he said.  “The satisfaction is in the process.”

“Oh yeah?  And your chop suey was made in a special batch that didn’t have MSG.  Get real.”

He stood up to leave the room, obviously disappointed with me.

I hated that.

I went to the fridge and pushed over one of the blue ribbons, so a little of the red one showed, but not the whole thing, mind you.

And if this is to be a ribbon-less year (God forbid), I will at least be soothed just knowing that my husband and best pal Bob enjoyed the journey most of all.

And for that, I should get a blue ribbon.