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Homicidal Thoughts, Al Dente

For this patient, it’s the last spaghetti that broke the camel’s back.

Photograph taken from overhead of a woman dropping spaghetti into boiling water. Behind her hand one can see tomatoes cooking in a pan.

A woman drops spaghetti into boiling water.

Cottonbro Studio/Pexels
Mariateresa Fichele

Dottoré! I think I have anger management issues — I just get nervous so easily.”

“And what is it that makes you angry?”

“My wife! My wife, every time she cooks.”

“Why? Is she a bad cook?”

“Not exactly, it’s just that she never listens to me. For example, I’ll tell her that a certain recipe requires either fusilli or penne, and she couldn’t care less! She turns around and tosses a mix of everything into the water, saying that it’ll cook faster that way.

Or else, she’ll tell me she’s making spaghetti with Piennolo tomatoes, which means she should be dropping the whole tomatoes into the oil and squishing them. But what does she do instead? She cuts them up into pieces because she doesn’t want to deal with the oil popping.

That isn’t cooking – that’s homicide!”

“Gennà, I don’t know what to say. You’re right! But we must find a solution to that irritation problem of yours.”

Dottorè, don’t say that. Now you remind me of my wife and I’m getting irritated again! It’s the same thing with her: We talk, but we don’t understand one another. The problem is with my wife’s cooking — I’m perfectly fine!”


Learn more about Worldcrunch's exclusive Dottoré! series here.

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How Parenthood Reinvented My Sex Life — Confessions Of A Swinging Mom

Between breastfeeding, playdates, postpartum fatigue, birthday fatigues and the countless other aspects of mother- and fatherhood, a Cuban couple tries to find new ways to explore something that is often lost in the middle of the parenting storm: sex.

red tinted photo of feet on a bed

Parenting v. intimacy, a delicate balance

Silvana Heredia

HAVANA — It was Summer, 2015. Nine months later, our daughter would be born. It wasn't planned, but I was sure I wouldn't end my first pregnancy. I was 22 years old, had a degree, my dream job and my own house — something unthinkable at that age in Cuba — plus a three-year relationship, and the summer heat.

I remember those months as the most fun, crazy and experimental of my pre-motherhood life. It was the time of my first kiss with a girl, and our first threesome.

Every weekend, we went to the Cuban art factory and ended up at the CornerCafé until 7:00 a.m. That September morning, we were very drunk, and in that second-floor room of my house, it was unbearably hot. The sex was otherworldly. A few days later, the symptoms began.

She arrived when and how she wished. That's how rebellious she is.

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