God, but your patient.
I can’t stand how much you love me, in the grocery store.
You give me so much time,
you know how its hard for me.
But sweetheart, get angry!
Penne or Rigatoni is not a valid stressor
and you don’t need second opinions for cauliflower.
How calm you are while I fuss over fresh herbs
or dried ones--I chalk it up to your lack of experience:
I have, after all, known myself longer,
and I make a mental note to loan you
‘House of Mirth, which you need to read
so you can resent me properly--or at least with authority.
I just want you to hate me like I do
so when it turns out I’m a better cook than a person
you won’t be disappointed. But what if you only
love me more afterwards? Oh, my God, What can I do?
There are 41 types of pasta sauce here
but I only need one.