My mother placed the guacamole on the hors d’ oeuvres table and seemed surprised as my brother, sisters, and their families dove into it. My mother, however, decided it didn’t match how she believed it should taste. She took it to the kitchen, added salt, then returned it to the table.

My wife grabbed my arm. “You must tell her that it is my family’s recipe, and it was totally inappropriate seasoning it to her taste. My family never adds salt to guacamole.” She made fierce eye contact while saying, “I mean it. You are my husband, and you must stand up to your mother.”

I carried the bowel into the kitchen, set it on the counter. “Mom, my wife’s guacamole comes from a generation’s old family recipe. It is never salted. It’s inappropriate for you to decide to change the recipe.” She protested that the taste needed correction. I reiterated that she had no business correcting food someone else brought.
I left and three of my sisters walked into the kitchen. My mother expressed outrage at my audacity. Luckily, all three of my sisters agreed that she absolutely should not inject her tastes into someone else’s recipe.

The bowel, already half eaten, was placed back on the table. The attendees picked up on the dispute and didn’t eat anymore.
Six months later another family party occurred. My mischievous wife offered guacamole as her contribution. My mother searched kitchen accoutrement web sites and found an eighteen-inch-tall wooden saltshaker. She placed it next to my wife’s bowel. To my family’s credit, they rapidly consumed the guacamole without ever using the saltshaker.

For every subsequent family dinner my wife contributed the well-received guacamole. The saltshaker never again appeared.
After my parents passed, the family met to divide up their household possessions. My sisters, with smiles, gave me the saltshaker. I tossed it into our garbage.