When a new bride comes to the house you can’t fight in the open, even when evidence of butchery is spread on the table before you. For now you have to act as if that’s fine; don't worry--eventually the bride will go home.
But you're mad. Someone should have scraped the leftover meat into a plastic container, but nobody’s in the kitchen; you have to do it. The barley and beans swimming in canola oil and meat fat you throw into the cats’ dish and the rest you throw into the compost pile.
You scrub out the pot along with your mind and heart, which by now has to fight off waves of anger:
The stupid hamin spoiled my Shabbat!
Then you remember the bride and keep your cool; next week will be normal.
Next Shabbat the bride doesn’t come, but somehow a pot of hamin has appeared on the hot plate.
You decide in favor of Peace and don’t say anything.
Next morning your baked salmon, vegetables, rice, and aduki beans squeeze on the hot plate next to the pot of hamin.
After Kiddush you hurry to serve, but the hamin beat you to the table.
Now what are you supposed to do? Fish and meat have to stay separate! Your ninety-shekel salmon is going to ruin; your brain is exploding.
You wrap up most of the fish and put it in the fridge.
What’s going on here??
It’s jihad, Holy War. Your Moroccan son-in-law is dead set to make you repent for not eating hamin in honor of Shabbat. He means well; he’s concerned that you earn a place in The World to Come.
And what have you been doing? Playing nice; making compromises. And it’s not working, because you’re all kindness and no backbone.
Then and there you decide to be like Sarah our matriarch and drive that instigator, the hamin, into the desert with a small flask of water and nothing else.