More about dinner

I wish I could blame it on the pandemic, but my husband and I have been arguing about food for 17 years. ”What’s for dinner” is *the* fight of our marriage.

He wants to not be involved at all, with any of it. He wants me to make something and serve it to him. Meanwhile, I’m rarely hungry, and I have this stupid idea that he should tell me what he wants so I can provide it.

He says, “Just make what you want!”

I say, “I’m not hungry! I don’t want anything! You’re the one who’s hungry!” 

He grits his teeth, “Just make whatever!”

I shout, “Tell me what you want and I’ll make it!” (For the sake of wordcount I’ve left out about a dozen f-bombs that would have peppered this conversation.)

In the marriage-counseling world this fight is known as an impasse. We are both looking for the other person to fix it, and we are both resentful because we believe the other person could fix it if they wanted to, but they’re just being a jerk.

Usually, when my husband says, “What’s the dinner plan?” I shrug. He scowls. I start listing things I wouldn’t hate making: tacos, eggs, pasta. He keeps scowling. I keep listing. Eventually, he raises his eyebrows to the sky, sighs, and says, “Fine. Pasta.” I trudge to the kitchen to make pasta nobody really wants.

Sometimes though, I give a really pathetic list of things I know won’t appeal to him: shrimp, falafel, anything with beans. Or I don’t give a list at all. Like last night. 

My husband said, “What’s the dinner plan?”

I said, ‘Um…it’s really hot!”

We ignored each other for a few minutes, then he said, “Five Guys?”

I said, “Oh, yes!” and ran to get my shoes on before he could change his mind.

We took the top off the Jeep, picked up grilled cheese sandwiches and fries and split a chocolate shake. We drove to Sherwood Island and ate in the car. There was a nice breeze and we were both very satisfied.