A long time ago, my husband and I came to a mutual agreement that I’d handle the weekly Shabbat preparations and he’d wash the cholent pot on Saturday nights. It works for us—I enjoy the former and he has the stomach for the latter—and we never tell one another how to do our jobs.
But there was that one time my husband had a big idea.
He returned home late from work on a Thursday evening and pulled up a chair in the kitchen. I was sporting a schmutz-covered apron to conduct an orchestra of pots on the stove, a wooden spoon in each hand. Not quite a French maid holding a martini. Yet my less than sultry look wasn’t the problem. It was the dining room table.
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