Dear Diary,
This morning, as I slipped on my shoes and headed for the tube, I asked Eleanor, Why dont you ever ask me what Id like for dinner? She looked up from her coffee, a faint smile playing on her lips, and replied, I was planning to rustle something up for you, but if you want something specific, just say so.
I frowned. Its not about the food, love. Its about the question itself. Isnt it hard for you to ask? Does it not intrigue you at all?
She shrugged, Honestly, no. I dont see the point.
Ah, you see! We used to talk about this. It used to matter, I exclaimed, feeling a strange mix of irritation and nostalgia. Eleanor stared off, her mind clearly wandering back to earlier days.
She mused, Well, I did ask before. It got awkward, didnt it? I ought to ask, otherwise itll never get settled.
What would you like for dinner? she finally asked.
I let out a small grin, thinking, *Heres my chance to be a good husband, not a nagging one.* I reminded myself that marriage is a giveandtake, that I ought to be gentle and forgiving, lest I become the very tyrant I despise.
Alright then, I said with a hint of concession, Im in the mood for meat patties.
Eleanor pried, Which kind? Pork, lamb, beef? Or perhaps fish?
Any but fish, I snapped, You know Ive detested fish patties since I was a lad, choking on them at nursery.
She winced, Im forgetting againdidnt you hate the fish patties that made you gag back then? I could see the memory of my childhood misadventure flickering across her face, and the thought of hearing that tale again made me bristle. Still, I needed to steer the conversation away from the dreaded fish.
What about a side? Potatoes, pasta, rice, or maybe some buckwheat?
Just fry the potatoes, I said. Dont stew themgive them a nice crust.
She replied, Of course, love. Ill make them crisp, no worries.
I added, Im not worried. You should be.
A brief flash of irritation crossed my mindhad I just been a bit harsh? I told myself there was still work to be done on my temper before I could consider myself a proper gentleman.
Could you also toss together a simple salad with tomatoes and cucumbers, please? I softened my tone, hoping to smooth the rough edges.
Certainly, dear, she said, mirroring my words. With garlic and dill, right?
Exactly, and a dollop of crème fraîche.
She affirmed, With crème fraîche.
And the potatoes, sprinkle them with dill and onions as you fry them, I reminded her.
Everything just as you like, darling, she replied.
We exchanged a warm goodbye, and I left our flat in Camden, but the whole walk to the office was clouded with a vague unease about Eleanor. I couldnt pinpoint what was amiss, only that something felt off. At work I drifted through the day, my thoughts looping back to the oddness of her behaviour.
Tonight Ill have a proper talk, I told myself. Perhaps Ive unintentionally hurt her.
At the office canteen I poked at my meat patties, potatoes and salad, watching Eleanor at home, who was gleefully devouring a plate of roast chicken drenched in tomato sauce. She laughed, winked, and seemed to be having the time of her life.
Hold on, I called out, why are you eating chicken instead of the patties?
She just craved fried chicken for dinner, she explained, When you mentioned patties, I thought you didnt want them, so I went for chicken with a garlicky sauce. Isnt it delicious? Do you not like it?
I do, but I thought wed share the patties, I admitted, a little crestfallen.
She smiled, I wanted everyone happy. You eat what you like, I eat what I like. Fair enough?
Its amusing, I muttered, May I have some chicken too? Watching you enjoy it makes me want a bite.
She shook her head, I saved the chicken for myself. The patties and the salad are yours, as is the fried potatoes.
But you still have that whole chicken leg, I protested.
Thats mine, she said, Ive cooked two for myself. Im not interested in the patties.
I ate my patties, eyeing her mouthfuls of chicken with a mix of envy and admiration. The patties lodged in my throat, and I realized how hungry I was for a bit of her enthusiasm.
Later that evening, as I left for work the next morning, Eleanor asked, What would you like for dinner, love?
Fried chicken, I said confidently. I dreamed about it all night. Make it just as you did for yourself, no sides, just the sauce.
Alright, dear, she replied.
That night I ate the chicken without appetite, while Eleanor, seated beside me, wolfed down a hearty lamb stew. Its best when its piping hot, she declared, I could eat it forever.
Throughout the week, Eleanor kept surprising me with different meals: yesterday she served fried sprat. I want some too, I pleaded.
Why didnt you tell me this morning? she asked, baffled. I was already preparing your cutlets.
I never knew Id want sprat, I admitted. A hint would have helped.
She sighed, I didnt even know Id want it myself.
Just a bite, please, I begged.
No, she said firmly. What shall I eat then? Your cutlets?
The next dawn, as she saw me off, I shook my head at her question about dinner.
Enough, I muttered. Whatever you cook for yourself, make the same for me, and make plenty.
From that day onward I stopped asking Eleanor what I wanted for dinner.
Looking back, I see that my silence was less about the meal and more about my pride. I learned that asking, listening, and sharing preferences is a small act of respect that keeps a marriage from drifting into silent misunderstandings. Its a reminder that love thrives on honest conversation, not on the assumption that the other will read your mind.
Lesson learned: communication, however simple, is the true spice of any partnership.
