The dining hall hummed with chatter as Nigel scowled at the buffet spread. “At least here I’ll get proper food, not your slop,” he hissed. But my reply, served cold on his plate, drained the colour from his face.
Those wedded long enough know husbands come in two breeds. Some swallow whatever you cook with gratitude. Others, like my Nigel, treat every meal as an invitation for critique.
Thirty years of marriage, and I’d heard only variations of: “Soup’s over-salted again,” “Potatoes are underdone,” “Mum’s roast beef was tender, not like your boot leather.” A real treasure, that one.
Honestly, I’d begun doubting my hands grew from the right place. I’d tried everything—cookbooks, telly chefs, hours over steaming pots. Duck à l’orange for Christmas, beef Wellington, slow-simmered stews. Yet his face always soured, lips pursed in comparison to his late mother’s phantom feasts.
Then the doctor—a stern old bloke—laid it bare: “One more episode, Nigel, and you won’t get up. No fried, no fat, no salt. Diet or die.” And who d’you think policed it? Me. Steamed fish, oil-free veg, a pinch of salt at the table. His gratitude? Grumbles about “rabbit food” and starvation plots. Patience of a saint, I had.
Our all-inclusive holiday was meant to be my respite—from the stove, from his jibes. Let him gorge on hotel fare, I’d thought. Let him learn restaurant food ain’t always grander. How wrong I was.
From day one, it was a glutton’s ballet. Nigel lurched between chafing dishes like a fox in a henhouse. His plate? A greasy monument—buttery mash, glistening ribs, mayo-slathered coleslaw, crowned with a wedge of pie.
I nudged: “Remember your blood pressure, love. That last spell—”
“Blimey, woman!” He waved me off. “I’m on holiday! Paid my quid—I’ll eat what I like! Better than your slop!”
So there he sat, chewing loud enough to drown the string quartet, while I picked at lettuce, feeling less a wife than a nursemaid. Days blurred. He ate. I bit my tongue. He praised the chefs, phoned our son to boast of “making up for lost meals.” But one evening, the dam broke.
As he sawed into a dripping steak, grease on his chin, he moaned: “Now this is proper grub! Juicy, flavourful—not your bland mush!”
Girls, my fork nearly clattered. Thirty years at the stove, and this? “Mush”?
The wave crested. “Fancy proper food, do you?” I thought. “Right then. Let’s feast.”
Next dinner, I approached like a cat to a mouse. “Sit, darling,” I purred. “Let me spoil you.” Bewildered, he obeyed.
I seized the largest plate. Three fatty pork chops, crackling like firewood. A landslide of chips. Mayo-drowned salads. Spiced carrots. Chicken wings. Sausage rolls. The lot drenched in ketchup, cheese sauce, mustard. The chef gaped as if I meant to feed an army.
Like a saint bearing gifts, I presented the grotesque tower. “Eat up, love! All the proper food you wanted. Tuck in!”
The room noticed. Titters. A nod from a knowing woman. Nigel paled, then flushed. In my eyes, he saw not care, but ice.
“You—what’re you playing at?” he whispered.
“Something wrong, pet?” I simpered. “This is ‘proper grub,’ ain’t it? Just as you asked.”
Trapped. No scene to make—not with my “kindness” on display. Eat it? Suicide. He pushed the plate away.
Five silent minutes passed. The rest of the holiday, he ate dry chicken and greens. And eyed me like I’d sharpened the knives.
So, loves—ever been served a taste of your own bile? Do tell.
