28March2025
Dear Diary,
This morning I slipped out of the flat on Baker Street, heading for the office, and asked Emily, Why dont you ever ask me what Id like for dinner anymore? I tried to sound casual, but a little edge crept in. Or does it not matter to you at all?
She answered coolly, I thought Id just make something youd like, whatever comes to mind. Then, after a pause, she added, If you prefer something specific, just tell me.
I didnt want to hear about preferences. It isnt about wanting or not wanting, I said. The point is you asking at all. Is it hard for you to ask? Do you find it uninteresting?
She looked surprised and replied honestly, No, its not interesting to me. Whats there to be interested in?
I raised my voice a notch, Oh, come on! We used to ask each other. Back then it mattered!
Emily fell silent, thinking. Hmm, she mused, I really did ask before. Something about it got awkward, and now I just assume youll know.
She finally asked, What do you want for dinner?
I smiled inwardly, thinking about the little favour I could grant her. Alright, I wont be a tyrant. Marriage is about compromise, after all. Ill be kind and easygoing, not a nagging partner. Im not a bad husband; I should be able to forgive and be forgiven. Otherwise how can we consider ourselves decent people?
She sighed, Fine, Ill have meat patties.
I pressed, What kind? Pork, lamb, beef? Or maybe fish patties?
She laughed, Any except fish! I felt a flash of triumph. Youre joking, arent you? You know Ive hated fish patties since I was a child.
Emilys mind raced. Whats wrong with me today? Im so absentminded. Hes told me a hundred times how he choked on fish patties in nursery school. Im tired of hearing his tragic fishpatty stories. I must change the subject before he spends the whole day nagging me about them. And dont forget he also despises jelly.
I asked, What about a side? Potatoes, pasta, rice, or maybe buckwheat?
Just fry the potatoes, he said. Dont stew themgive them a crisp.
Of course, love, Emily replied, Ill fry them up nice and crunchy.
Im not worried, I replied confidently. You should be the one worrying.
A small, annoyed voice in my head wondered why Id snappedwas I trying to prove my superiority? Theres still a lot of personal work to do before I can consider myself a truly good man.
Trying to smooth things over, I softened my tone, If you dont mind, dear, could you also make a little salad with tomatoes and cucumbers?
Certainly, she said sweetly, Ill do that.
Add some garlic and dill, I reminded.
Garlic and dill, she echoed with a smile.
And a dollop of sour cream.
Got it.
And fry the potatoes with dill and some onion, I added.
Everything just how I like it, Emily promised.
We said our goodbyes, and I left the flat, but the walk to the tube felt heavy. Something seemed off between us, though I couldnt pin down what. At work I drifted through the day, preoccupied with my wifes odd behaviour.
Ill have a proper talk with her tonight, I told myself. Maybe Ive hurt her without realizing it. I need to sort this out before it gets worse.
At lunch I stuck a fork into a patty, some crispy potatoes, and a salad, watching Emily across the break room devour a plate of fried chicken drenched in tomato sauce. She laughed and winked at me.
Hold on, I said, why are you eating fried chicken instead of the patties?
She replied, I just felt like having chicken tonight. When you mentioned patties, I thought you didnt want them, so I switched to chicken with garlic sauce. Isnt it delicious? Is something wrong?
I felt a sting, No, its justI thought wed both have the patties.
Emily thought, He assumed Id eat his lousy patties. Where did that come from?
Im sorry, she said, mouth full of chicken, I just wanted everyone happy. You eat what you like, I eat what I like. Simple, right?
Its funny, I murmured, Can I have some chicken too? Watching you eat like that makes me hungry.
No, she said. I only made the chicken for myself. The patties are yours, as is the salad, and the fried potatoes are all yours. Enjoy, love.
I noticed another whole chicken leg on her plate. Ill share the patties with you, I offered.
Its mine, she declared, I fried two for myself. I dont want the patties.
I ate my patties with envy, watching her bite into the second chicken leg. The meat was so tasty that I could hardly keep my eyes off her.
I overcooked the chicken a bit, she said, so the skin is nice and crunchy. Youd love it.
I can imagine, I whispered.
I forced a weak smile as I finished the last patty.
The next morning, as I left for the office, Emily asked, What would you like for dinner, love?
Fried chicken, I replied confidently. I dreamed about it all night. Make it just as you did before, no side dishes, just the sauce.
Alright, dear, she said.
That evening I ate the chicken without appetite, because Emily was gleefully polishing off a lamb stew right in front of me.
Its better when hot, she chirped, I could eat it forever. Ive loved lamb stew since I was a child.
All week, her dinner surprises kept me guessing. Yesterday she served fried smelt, and I found myself whining, I want some smelt too.
Why didnt you mention it this morning? she asked, surprised. I was preparing schnitzels for you.
I had no clue Id want smelt, I admitted. You could have hinted.
She replied, I didnt even know Id want it later.
Give me a piece, I begged.
No, she said firmly. What am I supposed to eat? Your schnitzels? No, thank you.
The following day, as I waved goodbye, Emily asked again what I wanted for dinner. I shook my head, No, that wont work. Stop playing games with me. Whatever you make, Ill eat. And make plenty.
From that day on, I stopped telling Emily what I wanted for dinner.
James.
