By gayantha310
“It Was Never About the Butter”
So, my husband insists butter belongs on the counter because “that’s how Grandma did it.”
Every time I see that softening slab of butter melting on a dish near the toaster, my stomach turns. I can’t help but wonder — is this even safe?
Braden, my husband, is the kind of guy who believes rules are suggestions. When I asked him about it, he didn’t flinch: “Of course. That’s how Grandma Selma always did it.” End of discussion.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it — room-temp butter, bacteria, summer heat. I texted my friend Odessa. Her reply? “Girl, toss it. Salmonella doesn’t play.”
And so began the Great Butter Standoff.
Braden kept using it. I stuck to olive oil. I googled food safety charts. The kitchen thermometer read 78°F — definitely not ideal. One morning, I showed Braden the research. He shrugged and said, “Grandma lived to 98. Maybe you’re worrying too much.”
I let it go — until Odessa told me my sister-in-law, Clarissa, had posted cryptic Facebook statuses about “some people not respecting family traditions.”
Seriously? Over butter?
When I confronted Braden, he admitted he vented to Clarissa. I felt blindsided. I’d never made a fuss about his old trophies or muddy dog paws in bed — and now this?
But when he finally said, “Keeping butter on the counter reminds me of Grandma. It’s a comfort,” everything shifted. Suddenly, it wasn’t about bacteria. It was about memory. About grief. About home.
We compromised. He left a note:
“Let’s try whipped butter in a covered crock. Out for two days max?”
Then came Elsbeth, my mother-in-law, after Clarissa told her I was “changing Braden.”
Turns out, the dish I almost trashed was Grandma Selma’s. A family heirloom.
Elsbeth suggested a beautiful middle ground: keep the dish out as a keepsake, but store the butter in the fridge. That small gesture softened everything.
And just like that, we stopped fighting about butter. We started talking about Grandma Selma — her cinnamon toast, her slippers, her porch light superstitions. And I began to see Braden more clearly.
Weeks later, Braden placed a small photo of Selma next to the butter dish. “Now she’s here with us every day,” he said.
We invited Clarissa and Elsbeth over for dinner. There were laughs. Apologies. Even a pie. Clarissa admitted she’d gone too far. We moved forward.
Now, Braden and I nudge each other if we forget to put the butter back in the fridge. A silly little habit. But one that reminds us what we learned:
Some fights aren’t about what they seem. Sometimes it’s not about the butter — it’s about being heard. Being seen. Being willing to meet in the middle.
So if you find yourself in one of those weird household battles… pause. Ask what it really means. You might be surprised at the answer.
💛
