A while ago, we had a Code Red in the house: We ran out of butter.

Holy crap, I’m shivering with fear again right now.

No–it’s over. It was all just a bad dream. We solved that butter problem.

We planned to do a side-by-side butter tasting, but that never really happened. Next time.

After we replenished the butter stores, Peter bought some matzoh. This was a source of sitcomlike hilarity at the Trade Scare, as the matzoh rolled down the little belt after all my groceries, and I said loudly, “That’s not my matzoh!” It sounded a little bit too much like my mother saying, “I didn’t steal that Bible!” at the public library when I was a kid–a story I’ll tell you some other time.

Because, honestly, I really don’t like matzoh. It’s bland, it’s boring, it’s unleavened, it makes truly horrible soup–all, apparently, on purpose, for chrissake! (I mean, not for Christ’s sake. He had nothing to do with it. Whatever.) Still–as a food, without the cultural associations, it’s just ridiculous.

Turns out, Peter really likes matzoh.

He’s the one who’d put the box of it in at the end of our grocery pile. So there was a sheepish apology after my shocked denial.

And then we came home, and Peter put some of our new butter on his new matzoh.

And it was good!

Peter says I’ve just been eating the wrong kind of matzoh all this time. I guess you can get it with salt.

And butter…plenty of butter.