My husband carried a roll of yellow caution tape, a hand-lettered sign, and a small wooden stool. I stared at him, trying not to laugh. He taped the sign across the kitchen doorway, and it read, “Official Tasting Station. Clean Spoon Only. No Fingers.” Then he set the stool beside the stove and placed a clean spoon on a saucer. My father-in-law folded his arms. “Son, this is ridiculous.”

My husband stayed calm. “Dad, sit down,” he said. “I want to tell you about the winter I was eight.” His father opened his mouth, then closed it, because the room had gone quiet. Behind me, the soup bubbled softly, and my husband picked up the spoon, held it out, and looked his father straight in the eye.