The first rule of marrying a foodie is do not call him a foodie. Foodies don’t want to be called foodies. It’s not cool. Unfortunately, there is no better term than ‘foodie’ to describe my foodie husband. My husband is a skilled amateur cook who lives and breathes food (to be clear, he’d never actually inhale a dish worth savoring). Eating food and cooking fulfill him more than anything else (that probably includes me and I’m OK with that). As his roommate in a locked-down world, I have disproportionately reaped the benefits. I’m one lucky customer.
However, there are some very important things you should know about marrying a foodie, things I’ve learned, mistakes I’ve made. Here’s a taste of what happens when someone who used to eat to live shacks up with someone who lives to eat:
“Why are you peeing right before dinner?! There were 1439 other minutes when you could have been peeing today!” Got it. Apparently, mise-en-place (a French term used by chefs for having their, possibly literal, ducks in a row in the kitchen) means that everything should be in its place, including me, ready, at the table for the perfectly timed duck ragu. You’re right, honey, timing is everything. I’ll be ready next time.
Umami this, umami that. I still don’t know what ‘umami’ means or tastes like but I think that’s the point. It’s how they keep us regular folk out.
Travel is no longer “where do we want to go?”, it’s “what do we want to eat next?”
What is wrong with this dish? Um…needs more salt? No, wait, needs less salt. Ugh, well, I had a 50–50 chance.
“What’s for dinner?” is a loaded question. Don’t be fooled by the fact that the dinner on the table smells like food and tastes like food. There is only one love language now and it’s caloric. Wednesday’s puttanesca was actually an apology and I accepted. The roast chicken is a good sign, we’re doing well. It’s Friday, and it’s foreplay with frittata. Wait, are those beans? No, you’re right, we need a night to watch Netflix on opposite sides of the couch. We’ll touch each other in two days, unless that’s cassoulet day.
Dinner conversations are conversations about dinner. See point #5. Let the subtext continue. I’d explain more but I’m still deciphering the meaning of an intentionally burnt tostada.
Food poisoning? Always blame the salad.
“This is slutty good.” Wait, what did you just say? In effect, slutty food gets slut-shamed in a similar way to women who dress or act provocatively might be by idiot misogynists. When you eat slutty food, you may feel slightly regretful but you’re also very satisfied and wonder why you ever paid more for a worse version of the same thing. Slutty good will never earn a Michelin star even though it may taste better. It’s an injustice still to be righted in the food-world.
A food-friend once told my husband once, “the best kind of dinner guest is one who does the dishes.” Point taken! No need to say it twice. Can I be that dinner guest every night? As long as there is enough hand cream, I know I can do anything.
Ordering food is an art form. Apparently, I was doing it wrong. Order the special. You don’t ‘feel like’ the raw chicken* delicacy? It’s not about what you ‘feel like.’ No one feels like raw chicken. It’s about ordering what the chef knows. Trust me. (I did and I can never unswallow it. But why would I want to? For a moment, right before I gagged, I made my foodie husband so proud.)