Yochi was burned out. He was burned out, so he wasn’t thinking rationally. This whole tour idea obviously came from a place of desperation, and Pessie didn’t blame him

The path to a man’s heart, Pessie knew, was paved with pasta. Pasta, in a thick, creamy sauce. Without any vegetables, chalilah.

She diced a large white onion, then tossed it into a few tablespoons of melted butter. Good thing Yochi tolerated onions. Tomato sauce, vodka — real vodka, no ready sauces in Pessie’s kitchen — heavy cream, and lots and lots of grated parmesan cheese. If her clients were to see this….

She texted Yochi. What time will you be home?

Late. Eat supper, don’t wait for me.

She would wait for him. Whether it was until 9:00, 10:00, or 11:00, she was going to eat supper with her husband. It was the least he deserved after an endless day at the firm.

Yochi was burned out. He was burned out, so he wasn’t thinking rationally. This whole tour idea obviously came from a place of desperation, and Pessie didn’t blame him. Twelve-, thirteen-hour workdays, that would make anyone desperate.

They’d hardly paid attention to the animals after Yochi had told her about the job offer he’d gotten from Meir Binick. Pessie had listened to all the details: a tour company, Touring Together, looking for a new manager, was inviting Yochi on board, as though he were between jobs, as though he were some bored bachelor looking for action. She’d valiantly kept quiet, controlling herself from pointing out the sheer absurdity of the idea and bursting her husband’s bubble.

That Binick guy had caught Yochi at a perfect time. The firm was not fun in March, Pessie knew very well. She vividly remembered her father being out of the house from Motzaei Shabbos until an hour before Shabbos the weeks leading up to April 15. Accountants couldn’t breathe during tax season, and here this tour company guy came along, dangling an escape route in front of Yochi’s eyes. Of course Yochi was excited. Running a tour sounded more like vacation than work.

But what Yochi needed was stability. A hot meal with his wife at the end of the day, even if it was a very long and stressful day. In another few weeks, tax season would be behind him, he’d work normal hours again, and he wouldn’t feel burned out anymore.

The kids were difficult that night. Nobody ate, everybody fought, homework and baths took forever. But when Yochi stepped through the door at 10:30, she thanked herself for having waited.

“This pasta,” Yochi declared after the first bite, “is Pasta with a capital P.”

Pessie smiled. Their plates were a contrast in proportions. Yochi’s plate was 90 percent pasta, 10 percent salad, of which he’d maybe eat some honey-glazed almonds. Her own meal was a huge plate of salad with a few noodles on the side.

They didn’t speak much while they ate. It was only after Pessie refilled Yochi’s plate — you don’t care for the salad? — that she finally said, “So tell me. How are you? How was your day?”