He complained that nothing was turning out right from the oven.
He forgot some of the key ingredients. The bread was burnt. The steak too fatty.
Everything was a mess. All he wanted to do was make a nice Christmas Eve dinner
to celebrate his first Christmas with his new, young wife, me.
I had come in the door, a bit glazed over, and he didn’t notice.
He complained for a while longer.
Finally, he asked, “How was your day at work?”
“I put a toe tag on a 4 year old. His name was Dylan.”
My husband has stopped complaining. He learned.
Every Christmas Eve, we celebrate all aspects of living,
which includes burning the bread.