04May2025 Morning, before work
I asked Emily, Why dont you ever ask me what Id like for dinner any more? as I slipped on my coat and headed out of our flat in Camden. Is it no longer important to you? I added, halfjoking, halfserious.
She replied with a flat tone, I thought Id just sort something out for you, but if youd rather I pick a specific dish, I can do that.
It isnt about the dish, love, I said, trying to sound a little stern. Its the very fact that you never ask me. Is it hard for you to pose a question? Do you find it boring?
Emily stared at the kettle, then said, Honestly, Im not interested. Whats there to be interested in?
Oh, come off it! I snapped. We used to talk about this. It used to matter, didnt it?
She fell quiet, thinking. Well, I did ask before, she mumbled. It got awkward, didnt it? I should ask again, otherwise it just slips away.
So, what do you want for dinner? she asked finally.
I cracked a grin. A favour, then. I decided not to be a nag. Family life is all about compromise, after all. Ill be a gentle, forgiving husband, not some tyrant. We have to keep the goodnatured spirit alive, dont we?
Fine, I said with a sigh, Id like meatballs.
What kind of meatballs? Emily probed. Pork, lamb, beef? Or perhaps fish balls?
Any meat, just not fish! I blurted. You know Ive hated fish balls since I was a child.
Emily winced. Im being absentminded today, arent I? He kept telling me how he choked on fish balls in kindergarten. Im tired of hearing that story. I must dodge this now, or hell be nagging about fish balls all week. And I must remember he also despises custard.
What about the side? she continued. Potatoes, pasta, rice? Maybe some buckwheat?
Just fry the potatoes, I instructed. Dont stew them I want the edges crisp.
Of course, love, she replied, smiling. Crispy potatoes it is.
Im not worried, I said confidently. You should be the one worrying.
I could hear my own smugness echoing in my head. Had I overstepped? I sensed there was still a lot of personal growth ahead before I could truly be the decent partner I fancied myself to be.
Could you make a small salad with tomatoes and cucumbers, please? I added in a softer tone, hoping to smooth things over.
Certainly, Emily answered sweetly. With garlic and dill, right?
Exactly, with garlic and dill, I repeated, then added, and a dollop of sour cream.
Got it, she said, chuckling. And the potatoes with dill as well, and a bit of onion.
Everything just as I like it, darling, she promised.
We said our goodbyes, and I left the flat, but the walk to the tube felt heavy. Something about our routine had shifted, and I couldnt pinpoint what. At work I drifted through the day, my mind looping over Emilys strange behaviour.
Later tonight Ill have a proper chat with her, I reassured myself. Maybe Ive unintentionally hurt her. Ill sort it out before it gets worse.
Lunchtime came, and I found myself poking at a plate of meatballs, potatoes, and salad while watching Emily at the office canteen. She was happily devouring a serving of fried chicken, dousing it in a rich tomato sauce, winking at me across the table.
Wait a minute, I said, why are you eating fried chicken and not the meatballs?
I thought Id have fried chicken for dinner, she replied, mouth full. When you mentioned meatballs I assumed you didnt want them, so I went for chicken with garlic sauce. Its delicious, isnt it? Do you not like it?
Its fine, but I felt a twinge of disappointment. I thought wed both have the meatballs.
Emilys eyes softened. I just wanted everything to be nice for both of us. You eat what you like, I eat what I like. Isnt that lovely?
Its funny, I murmured, can I have a bite of the chicken? It looks appetising.
No, she said, still chewing. I only made it for myself. The meatballs, the salad, the potatoes theyre all yours. Enjoy, love.
But you still have a whole drumstick left, I protested. Ill share the meatballs.
Thats mine, she said, patting the extra piece. I deliberately kept two for myself. Im not after the meatballs.
I ate the meatballs with a pang of envy as Emily tore into the second drumstick, savoring each bite. The meatballs lodged stubbornly in my throat.
I overcooked the chicken a bit on purpose, Emily told me later, so the skin stayed crunchy. You should try it.
I can imagine, I whispered, managing a goofy grin as I finished the last bite.
The next morning, before I left for work, Emily asked, What would you like for dinner tonight, love?
Fried chicken, I answered decisively. I dreamed about it all night. Make it just as you did, no sides, just the sauce.
Alright, darling, she said, smiling.
That evening I sat with a plate of fried chicken, but my appetite was muted. Emily, meanwhile, was enthusiastically polishing off a lamb stew right in front of me.
Its best when its hot, she declared cheerfully. I could eat it forever. Ive loved lamb stew since I was a child.
All week the dinner table became a roulette of surprises. Yesterday she served fried smelt, which I hadnt expected at all.
I want some fried smelt, I complained, halfjoking.
Why didnt you mention it this morning? Emily asked, puzzled. I was preparing cutlets for you.
How was I supposed to know Id want smelt? I replied. A hint would have helped.
I didnt even know Id crave it until I cooked it, she said.
Just a bite, please, I begged.
No way, she snapped. What am I supposed to eat then? Your cutlets? Not happening.
The following morning, as I headed out, Emily asked again what Id like for dinner. I shook my head.
Enough, love, I said. Youve had your fun. From now on, whatever you decide to cook, make it for both of us and a little extra.
From that day forward I stopped telling Emily what I wanted for dinner, hoping perhaps the silence would let us find a new balance.
