girlfiend

Boyfiend and I had one of our usual fights this morning. We were planning on going out for coffee and breakfast at our favorite bakery to pick up some stuff for Christmas Eve/Christmas morning. He was doing some other stuff so I was straightening up the family room. He (while doing other things) told me to hurry up. I got annoyed and told him that I was just cleaning up because his family was coming over and someone has to do it and I do all the cleaning and blah blah blah. He, in typical fight fashion, got annoyed and told me he does plenty to help and doesn’t cleaning the boiler count and I said yes, but when we have a semi-working heat system, space heaters and wood stove that gets the house up to 90 degrees if we’re not careful, more practical cleaning when people are coming to the house is necessary. Blah blah blah. Then he tells me that he cleans lots of things like the cat litter and I respond that he only does the cat litter because I’m not allowed to so it’s not like he does it just to be helpful. He yells, I yell, he tells me to stop and I don’t, he kicks something, we yell some more and the Fiendling and I go out for coffee and breakfast without him because I ruin everything. End scene.

When we get back with bread for dinner tonight and sticky buns for tomorrow morning and eclairs for Boyfiend just to be sort of nice after our fight, Boyfiend had recently gotten off of the phone with his sister. I asked him what she wanted. He said that he didn’t want to get into it and that she just called to irritate him. That only piqued my interest so I asked again. He told me that she called to let him know she felt sorry for their father because he has to bring his own soup to dinner.

Fucking hell.

Last night at a family party Boyfiend’s father said he wanted to bring his own soup to dinner. I was insulted that he dislikes my soup so much he has to bring his own and I was kind of pissed off about it. The soup, Pasta e Fagioli, aka Pasta Fazool, is a Boyfiend family Christmas Eve tradition. His family recipe (which I’ve seen) calls for a can of tomato sauce a couple of cans of water, spaghetti and garlic salt. I think the recipe also calls for beans, but I’ve only seen a bean in my soup once so I think his parents just omit that part of the pasta and bean soup.

Last year I made Pasta Fazool using a more authentic recipe that calls for beans, tomatoes, herbs and pasta you don’t need to cut with a knife and fork. Boyfiend’s dad ate three bowls. But I guess he didn’t like it, so this year he’s bringing his own fucking pot of soup for dinner and Boyfiend’s sister feels sorry for him even though she didn’t even hear the conversation where in front of a room full of people he said he’d rather bring his own soup than eat mine.

If he’d asked to bring his own, traditional family soup months ago when we planned on being at my house for Christmas Eve I probably still would have been insulted, but a lot less insulted than I am now. If he gave us the recipe and asked us to make it his way I probably would have been insulted, but a lot less insulted than I am now. I understand tradition and comfort but I’m sensitive when it comes to my cooking. But instead, the night before Christmas Eve, he tells us he’s bringing his own damn soup and his daughter feels sorry for him. Well what about me? This isn’t even my tradition. My Jewish tradition is to be in Florida, or some other beachy climate enjoying the weather and having someone cook dinner for me. If I wanted soup for dinner I’d make ribollita, or Italian wedding soup, or something I like more than pasta and beans.

So Boyfiend, who’s annoyed at his sister, calls his dad and offers to make the soup himself using the crappy family recipe. His father says no and says he’s bringing bread too. Well he could have fucking told me that last night before I went out and bought freshly baked bread this morning. His parents do that all the time. They never offer to bring anything until the last minute when everything’s done and then they bring something I already have or have already made and I have to serve theirs to be nice.

I told Boyfiend we’re not serving their bread. We’ll serve their soup with my bread and if we run out of bread we’ll serve theirs but we’re serving ours first. Boyfiend says no, we’ll serve both. I said, no. It’s a fucking loaf of bread. If they’d told me they were bringing it I wouldn’t have bought it, but they didn’t and I did. We’re serving the bread I bought from the bakery I like and that’s it. And if his parents want their own bread they can go into the kitchen and get it themselves.

Now I’m going to finish cleaning the house and try to get over my irritation before Boyfiend’s mom, dad, brother, sister-in-law, niece and sister’s fiance come over for dinner.