You might think, at first glance, that this is one more food blog out there on the net — another straw in the haystack. Don’t be fooled. This is a romance story.
At times trashy and self-indulgent, at times tender, this is the story of a love triangle between myself, my husband the picky eater, and healthy food. It’s also a tale of redemption: of how I crawled my way out from under a mountain of meat and carbs, fumbling for years through fiascos like broccoli brownies and lentil "meat"loaf packed with mushy, overcooked vegetables forever robbed of their personality.
It took half a decade, but my love for fresh produce could not be denied. Meal by resented meal, I have learned to stop using canned tomatoes and butter as camouflage. I am learning to strike a balance of food that won’t have my husband sneaking out to Burger King every day at lunch to get his meat fix, and yet won’t leave me heartbroken over all the things I can’t cook.
We have struck a compromise, the three of us. Sunday Suppers are for me and healthy food to sneak away for our sordid trysts. Doc looks the other way. We’ve agreed that he can watch football all day over a tray of crackers, cheese, and wings if he wants. (Ew.) He can heat up something from one of the rubber jars that take up half our freezer space. He can even go hungry if he chooses. Whatever. I cook what I want. Pho. Salmon stew. Beet green Waldorf salad. A vegan-inspired mistake dubbed “macinsquash.” Doc can even join us if he’s feeling adventurous. I have given myself permission to feel only the bare minimum of guilt my lapsed Catholic upbringing insists upon.
Seriously, how did I ever live without these?
The rest of the week I work on perfecting curries, soups, crockpot meals… whatever it takes to keep him happy and scurvy-free. Learning to cook in a way that balances his endless list of no-nos with my list of yes-yeses has taken a long, long time. It’s still ongoing. We still fight about whether or not fruit is delicious. (It is, he just hates joy).
This blog is also a vow from me to you. It’s a promise to be honest with you when things don’t work out, to trust you enough to let you problem-solve where I might have screwed up. I will not re-cook things a dozen times until they are perfect. I will share my imperfection with you so that you can build off it. I give you permission to join me in the world of People Who Don’t Always Get It Right.
Here’s wishing us both a lot of luck. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!