As I was preparing dinner my husband cautiously approached. He walked slowly as if attempting to grab a rattlesnake by surprise. Still, he smiled as he said:
HIM: Honey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, but I didn’t want to talk about it too close to the event. You know, so please don’t take it personally.
ME: [going cold, thinking there is horrific news to be had] Uh, okay.
HIM: Well. It’s about dinner. You know, when you make pasta it’s a little rubbery.
ME: [relieved beyond belief and giggling a little, my marriage is fine] Rubbery?
HIM: Yes, it’s like you put down a bowl of rubber bands with glue on it. It used to be good, but something bad has happened to your pasta lately.
ME: It’s the same as I’ve always made it. I guess I can start buying another brand.
HIM: Honey if you want, I can buy you a pasta machine or something. Maybe that will make it better?
This ends the tale of how our favorite Italian restaurants stay in business.