We’ll Bet She’s Afraid Of Seasoning, Too

After many years of dating, my boyfriend and I decided to move in together. One thing I was super excited about was being able to cook for him. I grew up eating different recipes from around the world, and before my father died, he was able to teach me many different recipes.

One week after we moved in together, I had the day off and my boyfriend didn’t, so I decided to surprise him and cook for him. I was able to make a Caribbean/Mexican fusion bowl for him with jerk shrimp and mango, sautéed vegetables, and homemade guacamole over Spanish rice. Then, to my surprise, my boyfriend came home with a container of food his mother had made us. (She lives across the street.)

Don’t get me wrong; I was happy she was thinking about us, but his mom can’t cook. Her opinion of cooking is mashing everything together and boiling it or frying it until it is dark brown. Nonetheless, we put my bowls in the fridge and ate what his mom had made. We had the bowls for breakfast the next day.

After that, whenever my boyfriend had work, I would try to cook something nice for him: Gumbo, Korean rice dogs, Sushi, mocco locco, honey-glazed salmon, etc. No matter what, he would always come home with containers of food from his mother, and whatever I made would be stored away until the next morning.

One day, my boyfriend was working a closing shift, so I decided to try one last time. If he went to his mother’s to get more food, I would eat my food for dinner that day and would stop cooking dinner for him for a month. While I was simmering the food on the stove, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and to my surprise, it was my boyfriend’s mother with thirteen frozen pizzas.

Mother: “Is [Boyfriend] home? I texted him asking him to come over after work, but he never came.”

Me: “Oh! He’s working a closer. I’m just making some dinner.”

His mother went over and inspected what I was making.

Mother: “What is that?”

Me: “Rogan josh.”

(Editor’s note: rogan josh is a curry dish originating in India.)

Mother: “Good thing I brought these; I don’t think my son should eat stuff like Rohan Seth.”

I stared at her, open-mouthed, and then went back to making sure it didn’t burn. [Mother] opened the freezer to put the pizzas away, lecturing me about how I should stop trying to poison her son with “gross ethnic food”. I angrily glared, but I had an idea. The food was done, so I grabbed a container and went to pour the food into it.

Mother: “What are you doing?”

Me: “Every day I try to cook for my boyfriend, you insist on him eating your food, and my food is never even tasted first, so I may as well give this to his father. I’m sure he’ll enjoy it, and it’ll actually get eaten fresh.”

[Mother] gave me a look of rage as I offered her a spoonful. She took a bite, went, “Hmph,” and left, taking the pizzas with her.

Later that night, when my boyfriend came home, we discussed what had happened. He wasn’t thrilled; he said his mother had apparently told him I would appreciate not having to cook for him, and that’s why he kept bringing home her food, and we actually ate the food the day it was cooked.

His mother sometimes drops off frozen food, but it goes into the freezer for days we both work late. Otherwise, he now says, “No, thank you.”