I was proud of my husband’s growth. Now I’m resentful

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here’s an iced coffee from the Brunch Spot on the top shelf of the fridge when I open it to get out the cutlets I have defrosting.

I groan to myself. Yes, yes, it’s very sweet. I knooow! Shmuel is the best. It’s not his sweetness that’s the issue. It’s the speech he gave me last night about how there’s really no reason to be buying Starbucks and requesting soy milk, when there are an abundant number of heimishe, chalav Yisrael coffeehouses in Monsey. Which is true. But also, that makes it very clear that he doesn’t get Starbucks. It’s not really about the coffee. It’s about the idea, the feeling, the vibe, the clatter of the ice cubes in the plastic cup.

And also, let’s not pretend that his speech yesterday was the first Shmuel gave.

Nope, give the man his own TED Talk, because he’s got them down pat. There was the, “Should Eliana really be in sleeveless?” soliloquy.

“Yes, she’s two.”

We called Rav Weinstein about that one.

Guess if he said we should let the two-year-old wear sleeveless when it’s 94 degrees outside? You got it.

There was the, “By the way, I know we’re not always makpid, but it’s better if the pizza shop we order from is yashan, if that’s okay, Min.”

Okay, fine. But please, please stop. Of course, Shmuel’s the sweetest, and one of the reasons I married him was because he is always trying hard to be his best self and knows he's not a finished product. Still. Let me breathe, if you know what I mean. On the other hand, he’s so sweet and earnest, how can I be mad at him? (Don’t worry, I manage.)

I angry-cook, which is when I chop chicken with unnecessary force and then shake the pieces in a ziploc bag of flour with extra oomph. Only once they’re spread on a cooking sheet, waiting for me to pour on the garlic mixture, do I calm down a bit. Yay for no-frying recipes. Especially if they’re gluten and I can’t eat them anyway. Who’s excited for another can of chickpeas?