I love cooking. The sizzle of onions in butter, the warmth of the oven, the joy of setting a plate down in front of someone I love—it’s my happy place.
So, when I married Daniel, I took pride in making our meals. I wanted our home to be filled with good food and warmth. And for the most part, it was.
Until she started eating at our table.
Not physically, of course. Carol, my dear mother-in-law, lived in another state. But every time I cooked, her opinions arrived before Daniel even took a bite.
It started small.
One night, I made spaghetti. Simple, classic. I set the plates down, and before I could grab my fork, Daniel lifted his phone, snapped a picture, and sent a text.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just showing Mom,” he said with a shrug. “She likes seeing what I eat.”
I let it go. Five minutes later, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and grinned.
“Mom says the sauce looks a little runny. Maybe next time, use less water.”
I laughed, but not because it was funny. “Did she teleport through the screen and taste it?”
“She just knows,” he said, twirling his fork.
It got worse. Cookies? “A little overbaked.” Steak? “Medium rare is unsafe. She always cooks it through.” Chili? “Needs more cumin.”
At first, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. But then came the lasagna.
I spent hours on that meal. Homemade sauce, fresh herbs, three cheeses—the works. I pulled it from the oven, golden and bubbling. I plated it, proud of my work.
Daniel took his usual picture and sent it. Then, the text came.
“Mom says it looks dry. Did you forget the ricotta?”
Something inside me snapped.
“Do you even taste my food before you send it off for judgment?” I asked, staring at him.
He chuckled.
I clenched my jaw so tightly I thought I might break a tooth.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while Daniel typed away on his phone, probably reporting my failures to his beloved food critic.
I was done. Time to turn the tables.
The next evening, I went all out.
Chicken Parmesan—Daniel’s absolute favorite. Crispy breaded chicken, homemade marinara, melted mozzarella, all over perfectly cooked pasta. I even garnished it like a fancy restaurant.
Daniel walked in, sniffing the air. “Wow,” he said. “This looks amazing.”
I smiled sweetly, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Glad you think so.”
He sat down, reached for his phone—click!
Before he could take his usual picture, I beat him to it.
Daniel frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, just sending a picture to my mom.” I tapped away on my phone.
His face twisted. “Are you mocking me?”
I hit send. Except I sent it to his mom.
“Hi Carol! I worked so hard on this meal. Hope it meets your standards. Let me know if I should throw it straight in the trash. 😊”
Daniel’s phone buzzed instantly. His ears turned red. He read the message but didn’t reply. Instead, he set his phone down and stared at the plate.
I raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, take a bite. Or do you need Carol’s approval first?”
His jaw clenched, but he finally cut into the chicken. Chewed. Swallowed.
“This is… really good,” he muttered.
I leaned forward. “You sure? Maybe she’d suggest more salt.”
Silence. Without another word, he shoved his phone into his pocket and kept eating.
Victory tasted just like Chicken Parmesan.
For weeks, things improved. Daniel stopped taking pictures of his food. He even started complimenting my cooking.
But then, one night, I overheard him whispering on the phone.
“No, I didn’t send a picture,” he murmured. “Yeah, I know, but she’s been touchy about it… No, I don’t think she’d like that… Okay, okay, fine. I’ll do it secretly.”
My stomach dropped.
I took a step forward. He had his back to me, hunched over his phone like a teenager sneaking out past curfew.
“She doesn’t want me to anymore… Yeah, but if I do it when she’s not looking, she won’t know…”
A slow, cold anger settled in my chest.
“Who’s that?” I asked, keeping my tone even.
Daniel jumped. He fumbled with his phone before quickly locking the screen, forcing a laugh. “Uh… my mom.”
I crossed my arms. “And what exactly are you doing secretly?”
His guilty expression told me everything I needed to know.
I turned on my heel and walked away before I exploded.
The final lesson came the next evening.
I went all out.
Steak—his favorite. Perfectly seared, tender, juicy. Roasted potatoes, crisp on the outside, soft inside. Freshly baked bread, still warm, butter melting into every bite.
I set the table with candles, soft lighting, the whole romantic setup.
Daniel sat down, his eyes lighting up. “Wow, this looks amazing.”
I smiled. “I thought I’d make something special.”
He picked up his fork, ready to dig in.
“Hold on—I almost forgot.”
I reached for my phone.
Daniel frowned. “What are you—”
Click.
But this time, I didn’t take a picture of the food.
I took a picture of him.
Mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth, looking utterly confused.
He blinked. “Uh… what was that?”
I smiled and typed. Sent.
Daniel’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his face paled.
“Hi Carol! This is Daniel eating my food. Thoughts? Should I let him finish or make him starve until he learns to appreciate me? 😊”
He looked at me, jaw slack.
“You wouldn’t.”
I smirked. “Oh, but I would.”
His phone buzzed again. He didn’t check it. Didn’t dare.
For the first time in six months, he understood.
He picked up his fork, shoved his phone into his pocket, and ate. No photos. No commentary. Just food.
Carol never commented on our meals again. Daniel never took another picture of his plate. He even started complimenting my meals without a single side comment.
One night, he surprised me by making dinner himself. It was a disaster—burnt chicken, overcooked pasta, way too much salt. But I smiled, took a bite, and said, “This is really good.”
Because it was never about the food.
It was about respect.
And finally, I had it.
In the end, victory tasted even better than Chicken Parmesan.
