I keep my phone on silent for the eight-minute walk from the bus stop to my apartment; the tall co-ops on both sides of the street make it too noisy too talk.

I heard a podcast about mindful transitions, and figured this was a good thing to put in practice, considering that I actually had to shift gears when I got home these days. It’s not like my single days when it was just work from work, work from bus, work while walking, and finally work from home.

On the steps I paused a second to gather myself. I was home relatively early, it was only seven. But now I’d have to make supper, and that would take at least 45 minutes. I don’t know what these bloggers and magazines are talking about with all those 30-minute meals. Maybe I’m just a novice, or maybe they’re just liars. I’d be fine with just cereal and milk, or even real grilled cheese if I was getting fancy. But how can I serve that to my husband? I wish I was like Abby and just didn’t care.

I unlocked the door to the apartment and the pungency of soy sauce hit me in the face.

Ari popped into view. He was wearing my pink apron with the frills on it, a bridal shower half-gag gift. “Perfect timing.”

There was a can of rice noodles in his hand. I put my coat and bag away quickly and entered the kitchen. The table was set, with proper dishes, no Dixie plates. And chow mein noodles and duck sauce were already on the table.

“Have a seat, mi’lady,” Ari said, bowing deeply while simultaneously pulling out a chair for me.

I sat, dumbstruck and a little tired. I looked around the kitchen. Ari was at the stove stirring something, then he peered in the oven. I felt terribly grateful and eternally wounded at the same time.

Ari puttered around the kitchen, pulling out platters and putting final touches on dishes. I thought I saw him chopping scallions; did he buy scallions? Did he check them? He finally brought everything to the table, he’d made a stir fry with rice, a basic salad, and mini eggrolls.

“I bought those frozen, then baked them,” he admitted. “I’m not that geshikt.” He laughed. I tried to laugh along with him, but this supper stung. And then we dug in. It was delicious. Yay, he’s a great husband, he cooks supper, but by now I think he’s a better cook than me. I look so bad. What do I even bring to this marriage anyway?

Ari ate blissfully, I ate plenty too, but had a running tirade in my head the whole time. He looked up at me smiling.

“Are you gonna take off that apron?” I asked. It was supposed to be funny, but it came out a little testy.

Ari’s eyes dimmed for a second, but then he said, “The apron is a bit much, that I’ll agree.” He pulled the knot in the back, removed the apron, but instead of draping it on the next chair, he waved it around his shoulders then fastened it by his neck.

“Now I’m super husband!” he proclaimed, and pumped a fist in the air. I laughed and shook my head. He’s so ridiculous, it’s great.

“Busy night planned?” Ari asked.

And for once I was able to say, “No, nothing important planned. Just a few emails and whatnot.”

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 627)