Every Sunday for eight years, my husband’s friends have come to our house for lunch. Five guys he’s known since high school, plus their wives and kids when they can make it. Twelve to fifteen people, most weeks. I cook for all of them.
I learned from my grandmother in Oaxaca. Mole that takes two days. Chiles rellenos. Pozole on cold Sundays. Tamales at Christmas, two hundred at a time. Everyone says it’s the best food they eat all week. Marco’s wife once asked me for my mole recipe and then admitted she’d framed it.
Three Sundays ago, I was standing behind my husband, Greg, with a serving spoon, about to give him seconds of my pozole. One of his friends said, “Greg, man, how do you eat like this every day? It’s so spicy.”
Greg laughed and said, “She spices it to match her temper. You should see her when I forget to take the trash out. Hotter than the salsa.” He leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, guys, living with her is like living with a jalapeño.”
The whole table laughed. Even a couple of the wives. I stood there holding the spoon.
I’d never once yelled at Greg in front of his friends. I’d asked him, maybe three times that year, to please take out the trash. That’s my temper. That was the joke.
I put the spoon down. I smiled. I went back to the kitchen. And I made a decision.
If my food matched my temper, then for one week, my temper would be perfectly calm.
Monday dinner: boiled chicken breast. No salt. White rice. Steamed carrots. A glass of water.
Greg looked at his plate. “What’s this?”
“Dinner,” I said pleasantly. “I’m working on my temper.”
Tuesday: plain spaghetti with butter. Wednesday: a baked potato and a slice of white bread. Thursday: boiled chicken again, because I’m consistent. I didn’t raise my voice once. I didn’t use a single chile, a single clove of garlic, a single pinch of cumin. I was the calmest woman in America.
By Thursday, Greg was eating cereal for dinner. “Okay,” he said. “I get it. You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad at all,” I said. “Isn’t that what you wanted? A wife whose food matches her temper?”
On Sunday, the guys showed up at noon, like always. Fifteen people. Kids running around. Everyone came in sniffing the air, because normally you can smell my kitchen from the driveway.
There was nothing to smell.
On the table: a big pot of plain boiled potatoes. A tray of unseasoned chicken breasts. Saltine crackers. A pitcher of tap water.
Everyone stood there staring at it.
“Where’s the mole?” Marco finally asked.
I smiled sweetly. “Greg told you all last week that I spice my food to match my temper. So I’ve been working on my temper. I’m very calm now. This is what calm tastes like.”
There was a long silence. Then Marco’s wife, Diane, started laughing. Not at me. At Greg. She laughed so hard she had to sit down.
“Greg,” she said. “You idiot.”
One by one, the wives started laughing. Then the guys. Then the kids, who didn’t know why. Greg was standing in the middle of the dining room, beet red.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry. That was a dumb thing to say. I was trying to be funny. It wasn’t.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t. You made fun of me in front of fifteen people while I was serving you seconds of food I’d been cooking for two days.”
He looked at me, then at his friends, and said something I didn’t expect. “You’re right. And I’ve done it before. Not just last week. I make jokes about you being dramatic all the time. You’re not. I’m just the guy who never takes out the trash.”
Marco started a slow clap. Everyone joined in. Greg covered his face.
I went to the kitchen. In the back of the fridge, behind the milk, was a giant pot of mole I’d made on Friday, just in case. I’m calm, not cruel.
I heated it up. Everyone ate. Greg did all the dishes, by himself, for two hours. He took out the trash without being asked. Three times.
The following Sunday, Diane brought me a gift. It was an apron, custom-printed. On the front, in big red letters, it said: “Spiced to match my temper. You’re welcome.”
I wear it every Sunday now. Greg says it’s his favorite.
