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by Joshua Rogers on October 7, 2018
It was our second year of marriage and my wife wanted me to cook — or else — and she wanted me to do it with a good attitude. That’s asking a lot. I don’t like cooking as it is, and I sure don’t like cooking when I feel like I’m being forced to do it.
Raquel was pretty sick though, so I felt obligated to do it, rather than check out like I normally did when she was ill. That’s how I ended up standing over a pot of boiling water lowering raw chicken into it with a bad attitude.
“What next?” I asked.
“Read the recipe.”
“It says, ‘Add salt.’”
“Then add salt,” she said.
“It doesn’t say how much.”
“Just put some salt in your hand add it,” she said, walking away.
I picked up the salt canister, filled my hand and dumped it in the pot. Then I bitterly chopped the vegetables and threw them in too. That was the last step and I was just glad it was over. It wasn’t over at all.
A couple of hours later, Raquel took a spoon and tasted the soup. She spat it into the sink.
“My goodness, Joshua! It tastes like saltwater!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, starting to get even more irritated, “but you said to put some salt in my hand and add it so I did.”
“How much did you put in your hand?”
“I cupped my hand and filled it up to the top.”
“What? That’s probably a quarter cup, Joshua! What were you thinking?”
Raquel was furious with me and she was convinced I had ruined the soup on purpose. I defended myself and blamed her for being unclear. Deep in my heart though, I knew I had passively aggressively over-salted the soup. She had called me out and she had exposed my immaturity for what it was.
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