“Why Oliver No Longer Tells His Wife What He Wants for Dinner”
One morning, as Oliver was leaving for work, he turned to his wife. “Why dont you ever ask me what Id like for dinner anymore?” he said. “Or does it not matter to you now?”
“I was planning to make something of my choosing,” Emily replied indifferently. “But if youd prefer something specific, I can do that.”
“Its not about that,” Oliver huffed. “Its the principle. Is it really so hard to ask? Dont you care what I fancy?”
“To be honest? Not really,” Emily admitted. “Why should I? Whats so interesting about it?”
“Oh, brilliant!” Oliver exclaimed. “Weve come to this, have we? You used to ask. So it *was* important once!”
Emily paused.
*Hmm*, she thought. *Hes right. I did ask before. Awkward. Better ask now, or hell go on about it all day.*
“What would you like for dinner, then?” she finally said.
Oliver smirked.
*Oh, how generous of her*, he thought. *Fine. No need to be petty. Marriage is all about compromise, isnt it? Ill be the bigger person. After all, Im not some tyrant. And forgiveness is a virtue. How else are we meant to be decent human beings?*
“Alright,” he said magnanimously. “Ill have bangers and mash.”
“What kind of sausages?” Emily pressed. “Pork, beef, or lamb? Or I could do fishcakes”
“Anything but fishcakes!” Oliver groaned. “Are you winding me up? You *know* I cant stand them. Had to choke them down at school dinners as a boy.”
*Blast. Wrong move*, Emily thought. *Whyd I say that? Hes told that fishcake story a hundred times. Now hell go on about it for days. Must recover. And dont forgethe hates blancmange too.*
“What about the mash?” she asked quickly. “Or would you prefer roast potatoes? Maybe buttered peas?”
“Roast potatoes,” Oliver said. “But crisp, mind younot soggy. Proper golden ones.”
“Of course, darling,” Emily said sweetly. “Crispy it is.”
“Not that Im worried,” Oliver added smugly. “Thats your job.”
*Why did I say that?* he scolded himself. *Trying to prove a point? Rude for no reason. Still so much to unlearn before Im half the man I pretend to be.*
“If its not too much trouble, love,” he softened his tone, “could you do a side salad? Tomatoes, cucumberfresh stuff.”
“Absolutely, my dear,” Emily cooed.
“And garlic. And parsley.”
“Garlic and parsley,” she repeated with a smile.
“And a dollop of crème fraîche.”
“Crème fraîche.”
“Ohand fry the potatoes with onions too,” Oliver added.
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
With a polite goodbye, Oliver left for workbut something nagged him all day. Something was off about Emily. He couldnt place it. Distracted, he barely got any work done, puzzling over her odd behaviour.
*Tonight*, he resolved. *Well talk properly. Maybe I upset her without realising. Best sort it before it festers.*
At dinner, Oliver picked at his plate, watching as Emily devoured a golden roast chicken. She drizzled it with gravy, taking big, delighted bites, grinning between mouthfuls.
“Hold on,” Oliver frowned. “Why are you eating chicken? I thought we were having bangers.”
“I fancied roast chicken instead,” Emily said cheerfully. “When you mentioned sausages, I realised I didnt want them. But this? Divine. Garlic-rubbed, crispy skinyouve no idea. Whats wrong? Not to your taste?”
“No, but” Olivers shoulders slumped. “I assumed wed both eat the same.”
*Oh, you precious thing*, Emily thought. *Assumed Id suffer through your dreary bangers? Whatever gave you that idea?*
“Sorry, love,” she said, mouth full. “I wanted us both happy. You eat what you like, Ill eat what I like. Fairs fair, eh?”
“Charming,” Oliver muttered. “Can I have some chicken, then? It does look good.”
“No,” Emily said. “I only made enough for me. But youve got *all* the sausages! And mash! And salad! Tuck in, darling.”
“But youve a whole drumstick left,” Oliver wheedled. “Ill share my sausages”
“Thats *mine*,” Emily said firmly. “I made two for myself. Dont want sausages. Enjoy yours.”
Oliver chewed glumly, watching her polish off the second drumstick. The sausages turned to sawdust in his mouth.
“I left it in the oven extra long,” Emily mused. “For that perfect crunch. Heaven.”
“Ill bet,” Oliver sighed.
He forced a smile, finishing his last bite.
The next morning, Emily asked brightly, “What shall I make for dinner tonight, dear?”
“Roast chicken,” Oliver said firmly. “Dreamt of the blasted thing all night. Make it just like yours. No sidesjust gravy.”
“Of course, love.”
At dinner, Oliver poked at his chicken without enthusiasmbecause Emily was gleefully tucking into lamb stew.
“Its best piping hot!” she chirped. “Could eat this forever. Been my favourite since I was little.”
All week, Oliver endured Emilys culinary taunts. The final straw came when she fried up crispy whitebait.
“I want whitebait too,” he whined.
“Why didnt you say this morning?” Emily blinked. “Ive made you steak and kidney pie.”
“How was I to know? A hint wouldve been nice!”
“I didnt *know* Id fancy whitebait!”
“Just give me a bite”
“Not a chance,” Emily said sternly. “And eat my pie instead? I think not.”
Next morning, as she asked about dinner, Oliver shook his head.
“No more games, Em,” he said. “Youve had your fun. Whatever you make for yourself, make double. Same for me.”
From that day on, Oliver never again told his wife what he wanted for dinner.
Some lessons must be tasted to be learnedbut once they are, they stick like gravy to a plate.
