Last night the wife and I settled in for the first quiet, relaxing meal of the weekend. She rolled out fresh pasta and a made bolognese sauce that made our apartment smell like Rome while it simmered away for hours on the stove.
Although my pastry is still formidable, her cooking skills are better than mine. Her dicing is especially noteworthy. Her experiments lately have resulted in more successes than failures, unlike my own.
But I reminded her over dinner that while her cooking skills have progressed rapidly, when I met her she was using a serrated knife for everything.
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