**Diary Entry – A Lesson in Appreciation**
“At least I can eat decent food here, not your slop!” the man hissed at the buffet table. But my response—served directly onto his plate—left him pale.
Those married long enough know: husbands come in two types. Some eat whatever you cook and still say thank you. Others, like my Barry, treat every meal as an invitation for criticism.
For thirty years of marriage, I heard the same refrain: “Soup’s too salty again,” “Potatoes are undercooked,” “Mum’s roast was tender, not like your leather.” A real charmer, my Barry.
Honestly, I’d begun to think I was hopeless in the kitchen. I tried everything—cookbooks, telly shows, slaving over the stove like a woman possessed. I made coq au vin, Sunday roasts, even slow-simmered beef Wellington. Yet all I got was a sour face and comparisons to his late mother.
Then his health took a turn. The doctor—a stern, white-haired chap—warned him bluntly: “One more episode, Mr. Thompson, and you might not wake up. No fried, no fatty, no salt. Diet, or else.” And who d’you think enforced it? Me.
Steamed veg, grilled fish, no butter. Still, he’d grumble about “rabbit food” and claim I was starving him. Patience of a saint, I tell you.
When we booked an all-inclusive holiday in Brighton, I sighed with relief. Finally, a break—from cooking, from complaints. Let him gorge on hotel food and see how “awful” my cooking really was. Oh, how wrong I was.
From day one, it was a glutton’s paradise. Faced with the buffet, Barry lost all sense. His plate was a greasy monument: roast beef piled on Yorkshire puddings, drowned in gravy, flanked by mayo-heavy coleslaw.
I nudged him gently: “Barry, remember what the doctor said? Your blood pressure—” He waved me off. “Stop nagging, woman! I’m on holiday! Paid good money to eat what I like!”
So there he sat, chewing loudly, while I picked at a salad, feeling more like a nursemaid than a wife.
Then came the final straw. Midway through his third helping of sticky toffee pudding, he moaned, “Now *this* is proper food! Flavour! Not like your bland rubbish.”
Thirty years of effort, and all I got was “rubbish.”
That’s when I snapped.
The next evening, I approached the buffet like a hunter. “Sit down, love,” I cooed. “Let me take care of you.” He obeyed, wary.
I loaded a plate with battered sausages, greasy chips, extra-cheesy lasagne, and a mountain of fried onion rings. Drenched it all in brown sauce and mustard. The chef gaped.
Placing it before Barry, I announced sweetly, “Eat up, darling. You wanted *proper* food—here it is!”
The room fell silent. He paled, then flushed. Trapped.
Five minutes passed before he pushed the plate away. The rest of the holiday? Grilled chicken and steamed veg. And every time he looked at me, there was fear in his eyes.
**Lesson learned:** Ungratefulness has a way of coming back to bite you—sometimes with extra mustard.
