Cooking is my love language. So, when I married Daniel, I poured my heart into preparing meals for us. But things took a turn when he started sending photos of every dish to his mom, Carol, for her “feedback.”
At first, it seemed harmless. He’d snap a picture of my spaghetti, and moments later, her critique would arrive: “The sauce looks a little runny.” Over time, her comments became a constant presence at our table. Cookies were “overbaked,” steak was “too rare,” and chili “needed more cumin.”
I tried to brush it off, but the breaking point came with my lasagna. After hours of work, Carol’s response was, “It looks dry. Did you forget the ricotta?”
Fed up, I decided to teach Daniel a lesson. The next evening, I made his favorite—Chicken Parmesan. As he reached for his phone, I took a photo first and sent it to Carol with a cheeky message: “Hope it meets your standards. Let me know if I should throw it straight in the trash. 😊”
Daniel was stunned but finally ate without waiting for her approval. For a while, things improved. But then I overheard him whispering on the phone, planning to secretly send more photos.
The final lesson came with a romantic steak dinner. As Daniel sat down, I took a photo—not of the food, but of him mid-bite. I sent it to Carol with a message: “Thoughts? Should I let him finish or make him starve until he learns to appreciate me? 😊”
That was the end of it. No more photos, no more critiques. Daniel finally understood that it wasn’t about the food—it was about respect. And in the end, victory tasted even better than Chicken Parmesan.
