Turning Spicy

Wisdom from an old married woman

A friend and I sat down to lunch recently. We got to our favorite refrain quickly—rehashing grievances with our respective spouses. Together, we’re clocking nearly 50 years of marriage experience. We talked about the tiny ways they drive us crazy and also humble bragged about the way they care for us, or stumble onto a project that actually yields something. Her husband figured out a whole outdoor lighting system. My husband Velcroed the television remote to the coffee table at the end of an old telephone cord, never to be searched for again. Years of my life returned in an instant.

Fantasizing in Rome

At this point, many I’ve known have divorced. Some of them even make it look good! A relationship can happen in the blink of an eye, or stretch years into the distance. Marriages I know have lasted because someone is willing to cave and take the high road, or walk away when things grow nasty.  What others of you might call, compromise and kindness. 

This city girl has spent most of my life far away from any concrete jungle because he likes a lawn and a two car garage. I’m a foul mouthed upstart, he’s a sober handed judge. In the interest of a peaceful home, I am usually the one to surrender. An embarrassingly large portion of my world is internal. I mostly use the externals to provide me more material—a truth I am horrified and ridiculously privileged to live.

Some things that have been more difficult for me to get over. For instance, my husband experiences garnishes and anything green on his plate to be an assault on his predictable, delicate senses. Salt and pepper only, please. He’d rather starve than have to push the cilantro to the other side of the plate. He does chew a salad, but only when it has no nutritional value and is drowning in dressing—Caesar every time.  

For him the food groups consist of meat, potato and dessert. His limited tasting profile proved easy to master. Butter. Oil. Mushrooms. Fried cutlets. Mush. Should I feel blessed if he chokes down a boiled carrot? This was more bland than my own mother’s low fat, taste free cuisine. I compromised, but I resented it. Chives aren’t a slap in the face no matter how they might feel.

I’m not claiming to be Julia Child, or even Rachael Ray, but I set out to learn and can lay out an impressive, if occasionally undercooked, feast. And yet each pushed away plate felt like another one of my utter failures.

I wanted flavors from all over the world. A bit of everything, using curiosity and a pepper meter as a guide. My rules were simple, laid down by my culinarily adventurous grandmother half a century ago. Taste everything. Then decide.

Only Grandma wasn’t up against the Larry David like pickiness of the man I chose to trudge through life with. Kind beyond measure, considerate to a flaw, he is sure of his tastes and not one to reconsider, which serves me as his wife, but also makes him frustratingly difficult to feed.

I will not mention that whenever we go out, he orders the same old chicken parmesan, but then winds up eating my beautifully herbed game hen. I know what you’re thinking. Aren’t they peppered with all manner of green things? Right you are, but somehow that doesn’t count. Another long term marriage tip? Don’t think too hard. Just know. Basil is fine inside a pizzeria, but never in his sauce from home. 

I stuck to his milquetoast rules because he is everything I hoped he would be--a family man who adores me, the kids, and the dogs. I confess, it didn’t stop me from throwing rosemary in the sauce if it was thick enough, or the spice was yellow enough to blend in with the potato skins. I was bucking against his stubbornly enforced blandness, a love language I didn’t understand--the one for food not life.

When he has caught me, cardamom handed let’s say, it takes an inordinate amount of time to talk him down. There was the great couscous disaster of 2021, which included way too much cumin. Or, the time he actually recognized oregano beneath the cheese. He still talks about these things.

He took over the cooking when the lockdown came and he was working from home full time. I handed over the reins and didn’t look back. There are only so many ways to steam and salt. 

He served an amazing array. He went to the supermarket and bought spices, improving on food I hadn’t tried in years. He earned his fine barbecue reputation, marinating, crock potting and pressure cooking. Each evening was an adventure. 

Was he coming around? I devoured my portions and ate the leftovers for lunch the next day. He beamed. I noticed he was often only picking.

“This is fabulous!” I exclaimed, not even wanting to share with the dog. He smiled but only pushed the food around his plate.

I didn’t get nervous until he made a braised lamb he claimed was delicious but didn’t take a bite of. Maybe he was sick? 

My first and only bout of Covid in that frightening March of the original lockdown dulled my tastebuds and robbed me of scent. I can smell fire and flowers in my face, but beyond that it’s a crapshoot. I crave heat now, not just hot sauce.

I was right, he said. Cinnamon isn’t the enemy of sweetness. Nutmeg is more than something you're forced to gag on once a year—though I agree with him on that point. His conversion was too easy.

I’m an early to bed kind of woman while he is rattling through the house in cover of darkness and beyond my snoring. I went downstairs one night to make sure I started the dishwasher—a thing I’m constantly forgetting, and feeling aggrieved over when someone else does. 

He was staring into the microwave, anticipation on his face, the gamma rays whirring. He swung around when he heard me, guiltier than my kids ever looked. 

I squinted at the discarded boxes on the counter. “What are you eating?” 

“I was hungry,” he stammered.

I took the plate from him. Half full of dinosaur chicken, half piled full of crinkle cut fries. I shook my head at him sadly. I finally understood.

“Are you doing all the cooking so you can sneak this in without offending me?”

“Don’t be offended,” he said quickly. “You’re a great cook.”  

“I know I am,” I assured him. “You’re a shitty eater with the taste buds of a seven-year-old.”

He reached for my hand with his sweetest smile and looked down at his cup of microwaved mac and cheese. “I can’t help it. I like this better.”

I sighed and went upstairs, done trying to make sense to him. I stopped asking him to try new things. I don’t make him cook anymore, though he often does.  And that’s how you ride off into the sunset, kids, no matter how processed they prefer things.

However, when I get behind the stove now, I make what I like. Sometimes it’s peppered and has green stuff in it, sometimes it’s overflowing with poultry seasoning. If he likes it, he eats it. This is his compromise.

It used to feel as if he were rejecting me and not just my seasoning. His love language is food, and I often felt like I failed him. My love language is acceptance with humor, and he has never let me down.

The blessing of being together long enough is that eventually you get it. Compromise and a happy marriage depend on not trying to change each other’s garnish. We are who we are. Otherwise, we make sure the dino chicken is in on hand.