Butter Chicken

and the best husband

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It took me five years to get my husband to enjoy eating vegetables. Five years of pleading and strategy. For five years, I’d watch as he’d plunge his fork into a plate of salad, always careful, of course, to avoid the tomatoes, the cucumbers, and any particularly crunchy bits of lettuce. He hates the crunchy bits of lettuce. He’d put the fork, which he had, of course, made sure was drenched in dressing, into his mouth and make a very specific face. Like he’d stuck his nose in a garbage can. He’d chew it with his mouth open, like he wanted to expose the least amount of his mouth possible to the vile concoction within.

The only way I could get him to agree to eat the salad, or whatever vegetable I happened to be serving, at all was through careful planning. I’d always “forget” to start cooking on time, or “forget” one ingredient at the store, thus ensuring maximum hunger during the meal-making process. Then I’d chop everything very slowly, thus ensuring the maximum amount of frustration at how long the meal was taking. Then I’d say the main dish needed “just a bit longer to cook, but don’t worry, the salad is ready now if you’re hungry! We can eat in stages. It’ll be just like we’re in Europe!”