For five years of marriage, I cooked three dishes for dinner every day, and my husband still complained, “It’s better in the dining room.” So I came up with a plan
to teach him a lesson

For five years, I proved my love with food. I truly believed that was the only way to keep a man. The more you cook, the stronger the family.
“Daniel, would you like some julienne? I even bought new molds,” I said in the evening, barely able to stand after work.
“Okay,” he replied, not looking up from his phone. “But it’s still a bit dry. Did you skimp on the cream?”
Every time, something inside me clenched. I chose the ingredients carefully, cooked according to the recipes, tried my best. All I heard in response was
criticism.
I grew up in a family where my father was the boss and my mother was always the one waiting on the table. From childhood, I was told that a man loves with his
stomach. And I tried to live up to that.
On weekends, the kitchen turned into a real restaurant. Soup, main course, salads, dessert. Daniel accepted this as the norm. Over time, he became a home
critic in baggy pants.
— The borscht is sour.
– I added a little lemon, that’s how you like it.
“No need to experiment. The regular cafeteria food tastes better.”
He often mentioned the cafeteria and some cook who “cooked better and cheaper.” If the cutlets weren’t perfect or the mashed potatoes weren’t fluffy, I heard
the comparison again.
At first I was offended. Then I tried even harder. And then I got tired.
That day, I stayed late at work, then went to the store because the house was empty. I wanted to lie down and sleep, but I got up anyway and started cooking. An
hour later, there was hot meat and vegetables on the table.
Daniel tried and sighed.
— Too much tomato. Not tasty

He got out some sausage and made himself some sandwiches. I looked at the table, at the pile of dishes, and realized I couldn’t take it anymore. I silently threw
his portion in the trash.

“Since the food in the canteen is tastier, eat it there,” I said calmly.
He thought I was offended and would forget everything tomorrow. But I wasn’t offended. I was burned out. And I already had a plan to end it. I’m sharing my story
with you in the first comment
From that day on, I stopped cooking for him. I cooked only simple meals for myself. I had time in the evenings. I started reading, watching movies, doing things
I’d put off for years.

At first, he demonstratively ate instant noodles and pizza. Then he began complaining about his stomach and the money he spent on food.

— Maybe you should fry some potatoe

“It’s better in the dining room,” I answered calmly.
After a while, he decided to cook for himself. The dumplings stuck together, the scrambled eggs burned. I didn’t interfere. He had to go through this on his own.
Three weeks later, he sat down at the table and said he was tired of fast food and realized how much money he was spending. He admitted he’d gotten used to
my care and no longer appreciated it.
– I’m sorry. I behaved badly. I miss your food.

I forgave him, but I didn’t return to my old routine, but to balance.

I no longer cook every day and don’t try to earn his love through cutlets. If he wants a homecooked meal, he can help or cook it himself.
I made lasagna recently. He ate silently and attentively.
“Very tasty,” he said seriously.
“A bit dry?” I asked with a smile.
“Perfect,” he replied.
Now I know that love isn’t measured by the number of meals you cook. And if a woman spends all her time at the stove, sooner or later she stops feeling alive.