“You’ve got a problem,” Phil said with the only tone one can use whilst making an accusation. Whether it was whispered or barked, there it was, judgment day in our kitchen, and once again, I was up for review.
I can’t believe I didn’t take any pictures, not a single photo, via iPhone or actual camera. It’s the iPhone flaw, actually. We now rely on it for photos, so much so that we take it for granted, then just forget it exists. Here I cooked a whole Passover Seder, complete with Haggadah and wine glasses, softened butter for the matzoh, homemade Flanken and Matzoh Ball Soup, with balls two ways (I’m such a sucker for anything ball-related, except for actual balls)—all without a photo. I managed to get it all done, save for the dessert, which I knew my cousin was bringing. She made a dense and creamy and overall terrible for you cake that I adored and which my sister said tasted like pulverized Captain Crunch. I also served five flavors of Talenti Gelato.
“Like, a serious problem. Who just has five flavors of ice cream at home, not for unexpected or expected company, but just HAS five flavors on hand?”
To which I responded, “You see, that’s the real problem. First, that you feel the need to judge me, believing that your way is right and mine is wrong. And second, that you even see it as a problem when it’s very much a gift.”
It may not be an unpracticed but flawless piano concerto, but to have the ability to keep five flavors in a freezer without devouring every last one is my talent. Besides, I responded sweetly, “Why the fcuk do you care?”
“Because it’s not normal. Just admit that you have a problem.”
“Readily! Your having a problem with my buying ice cream is my problem.” And here, dear reader, is where a bell sounds in the rewriting of the event. If he has a problem with me, it is his problem, not mine. Ding, ding, ding. I’ve heard his complaint, accept that there might be validity to it, but ultimately I’ve decided that having that sweet range at the ready brings me delight and joy.
Should a day come when he reasons there’s no room for what he’d like, no room for his smoked meats, say, then we’ll have the his and hers discussion or bring up the word “compromise,” but until then, back off, stop naming my joys as trivial or wasteful, or anything at all. Now, let them all eat cake and ice cream.
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