I didn’t grade every meal, but it seemed like an exam. After my husband texted his mother photographs of every dish for approval, I taught him a lifelong lesson.
I like cooking. I like the scent of onions in butter, the oven’s heat, and serving my partner a platter.
I like cooking for Daniel after we married. I wanted our home cozy and full of delicious food. It was mostly true.
Until she ate with us.
Not physically. My adored mother-in-law Carol lived a state away. She always voiced her opinion before Daniel ate when I prepared.
Started tiny.
One night, I made spaghetti. Simple, classic. Daniel snapped and texted before I could retrieve my fork after laying the dishes.
“What are you doing?”
Angry, “Just showing Mom.” “She likes seeing what I eat.”
Got rid of it. Five minutes later, his phone buzzed. He grinned at TV.
“Mom says the sauce looks a little runny. Maybe next time, use less water.”
One laugh. It was ridiculous, not funny. “Did she teleport through the screen and taste it?”
“She just knows,” he twirled his fork.
Got worse. Cookies? “A little overbaked.” Steak? “Medium rare is unsafe. She always cooks it through.” Beef? “Needs more cumin.”
My initial belief was that it wasn’t important. It was her opinion. So what? The lasagna followed.
That lunch took hours. Three cheeses, fresh herbs, and homemade sauce—perfect. I took it out of the oven, golden and bubbling. I was proud to plate.
Daniel sent his usual photo. Text followed.
“Mom says it looks dry. Did you forget the ricotta? You know, mom just knows best.”
Something snapped inside me. Lay down my fork. “Do you even taste my food before you send it off for judgment?”
He chuckled.
I thought my strained jaw might break a tooth.
I stared at the ceiling in bed while Daniel texted his folks, judging my lasagna like a contender.
I completed. Carol’s comment stopped being casual. It was law. Her approach worked. And Daniel? He revered Carol’s kitchen altar.
“She’s been cooking since she was a kid,” he said one night when I criticized his meals. “She just has an eye for this stuff.”
I laughed, “An eye?” “Daniel, she’s not even here. She’s judging my food through a pixelated photo.”
His hand waved. “It’s harmless.”
Was it?
Carol called one night over dinner. Daniel answered speakerphone.
“Hey, sweetie,” she murmured gently. “Did you eat yet?”
“Yeah, we’re eating,” he munched.
“Oh, what did she make?”
Holding my fork.
“Chicken stir-fry,” said Daniel.
Carol hummed. “Stir-fry? You know, you used to love my stir-fry. I always made sure the veggies weren’t soggy. The trick is to—”
Smashed my fork.
Daniel looked at me, “What?”
I stood. “You can finish your soggy veggies on your own.”
Left table.
I watched the ceiling all night while Daniel typed on his phone. Perhaps telling his favorite food critic I overreacted.
Rolling over, I closed my eyes and inhaled.
Enough. Payback time.
Next night, I went all-out.
Daniel liked chicken parmesan. My homemade marinara, mozzarella, and golden-breaded chicken were served over perfectly cooked pasta. As a restaurant garnish, I put fresh basil.
Daniel smelled the air. “Wow,” he said, dropping his keys on the counter. “This looks amazing.”
I politely smiled and wiped my hands on a dish towel. “Glad you think so.”
I snapped his regular picture before he sat down and grabbed his phone.
Click.
Daniel frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, just sending a picture to my mom,” I typed casually.
His face twisted. “Are you mocking me?”
I sent. It went to his mother via email.
“Hi Carol! I worked so hard on this meal. Hope it meets your standards. Let me know if I should throw it straight in the trash. 😊”
Daniel’s phone buzzed briefly. His hand jerked, unsure to grab it. His ears were crimson. I watched him go from confused to annoyed.
Read the message but didn’t reply. Putting his phone down, he looked at the plate.
Raise eyebrow. “Go ahead, take a bite. Or do you need Carol’s approval first?”
Clenching his jaw, he chopped the fowl. Chewed. Swallowed.
His neutral expression didn’t distract me from his relaxed shoulders.
Hummed, “This is really good.”
My hand held my chin as I leaned forward. “You sure you don’t want to double-check with Mom before forming an opinion?”
Silence. He ate silently with his phone in his pocket.
Triumph tasted like Chicken Parmesan.
Weeks later, everything improved. Daniel stopped photographing food. He praised my cooking.
“This chicken is amazing, and the sauce is perfect.”
It seemed too good to be true. Naturally, yes.
I heard him whisper as I passed the living room one night. I stopped. Listened.
“No, I didn’t send a picture,” he murmured. “Yeah, I know, but she’s been touchy about it… No, I don’t think she’d like that… Okay, okay, fine. I’ll do it secretly.”
My stomach dropped.
I advanced quietly. He huddled over his phone with his back to me, like a child sneaking out. His voice was rushed and low.
“She doesn’t want me to anymore… Yeah, but if I do it when she’s not looking, she won’t know…”
Slow, cold rage filled my chest.
“Who’s that?” I inquired gently.
Dan nearly screamed. He laughed after fooling with his phone and locking it. “Uh… my mom.”
Crossed arms. “And what exactly are you doing secretly?”
He paused. “Nothing, I was just—”
His guilty expression told me everything.
My heart pounded. He promised to stop. He started reviewing my dinner with his mother like a restaurant critic.
No longer annoying. Unrelated to cooking. This was deception.
I fled before erupting.
My hands were curled again as I stared at the ceiling in bed that night. No eating anymore. He shared more than food. He kept a private scorecard.
Enough was enough. A final lesson was due.
Next night, I went all-out.
His favorite: steak. Juicy, tender, seared perfection. Roasted potatoes, crispy exterior, soft inside. Fresh bread with butter melting in every mouthful.
My table included candles, soft lighting, and romance.
Daniel sat grinning. “Wow, this looks amazing.”
I smiled faintly. “I thought I’d make something special.”
He dug with his fork.
Before he bit, I stopped him.
“Hold on — I almost forgot.”
I grabbed my phone.
Daniel frowned. “What are you—”
A photo was taken. Not food.
Of him.
Mid-bite. He was confused with a fork in his mouth.
He blinks. “Uh… what was that?”
Typing made me smile. Sent.
Daniel’s phone rang. He took it out, looked at the screen, and paled.
“Hi Carol! This is Daniel eating my food. Thoughts? Should I let him finish or make him starve until he learns to appreciate me? 😊”
As he looked at me, his jaw dropped.
“You wouldn’t.”
Smirked. “Oh, but I would.”
His phone buzzed again. He didn’t check. Not brave. Eventually, he understood after six months.
He forked his food after putting his phone in his pocket. No photos. Uncommented. Just food.
Carol skipped dinner. Daniel never photographed his plate again. He complimented my food without complaint.
He cooked dinner one night, surprising me. Too much salt, burnt chicken, and overcooked pasta—a disaster. But I smiled, ate, and said, “This is really good.”
For non-food reasons. It never was. Was respect. Finally, I had.
I preferred winning to Chicken Parmesan.
