Flashback to the 1970s

Husband aspires to a style of dining that could be described as ‘fine’. He treats mealtimes as if he were in a top class restaurant.

“Right, may I have . . . let me see . . . lamb chops with a balsamic reduction, potatoes au gratin, with a side serving of braised asparagus, and for dessert maybe some baked Alaska, or chocolate truffle pudding would be acceptable.”

“No. The choice is cheese on toast.”

“Or?”

“Toast.”

Seriously, I enjoy cooking and make an effort to feed us well. I would be MORTIFIED if Husband were to succumb to malnourishment. Therefore I keep the fridge well stocked with all sorts of yumminess: shredded chicken, shaved ham, smoked salmon, bacon, eggs, a variety of cheeses, pickles, chutneys. I make him honey toasted muesli for breakfast, and ensure he always has spare rations. I prepare dinners carefully balanced with the optimal blend of carbs and protein.

Since it is easy to revert to potatoes, salad, and whatever form of protein happens to be wandering around the freezer, I try to be adventurous within Husband’s tolerance levels. I avoid foodstuffs Husband spits out (anchovies; mushrooms; olives; vegetables in large, concentrated quantities; artichokes) and am selective about ingredients that make him retch depending on his humour and barometric pressure (rice and pasta).

Yet we still have conversations like the following:-

Husband: What is this? <prodding with finger>

Me: Peppered fish with zesty lime salsa. Mmm.

Husband: Meh.

Me: How much do you want?

Husband: None. I’ll just go hungry. *sigh!*

Me: THIS IS NOT A RESTAURANT! YOU WILL EAT WHAT IS PUT IN FRONT OF YOU!

Me: I HATE THAT I SOUND LIKE MY MOTHER!