Married to a Chef (Who Also Makes Tomato Roses and Insists on the ‘Good’ Dishes)
Married to a Chef (Who Also Makes Tomato Roses and Insists on the ‘Good’ Dishes)
They say the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach. But in my case, it was through a perfectly carved tomato rose—and an unexpected love affair with cloth napkins.
Yes, my husband can cook. Not just follow-a-recipe cook. Not just make-a-decent-dinner cook. No, no. He was a chef on a cruise ship in college.
That means he doesn’t just cook—he creates.
That means my breakfast eggs sometimes come garnished with a cucumber dolphin.
That means my fruit tray might include a melon swan, just because.
That means my salad is more than a salad—it’s a work of art.
And it also means that every meal is an occasion.
The Kitchen Is Our Happy Place
In our house, the kitchen isn’t just for cooking—it’s for laughing, dancing, and singing off-key to 80s music while trying not to set anything on fire.
He sautés.
I stir.
He seasons.
I “supervise” (a.k.a. sneak bites when he’s not looking).
We twirl around the kitchen like we’re competing on Dancing with the Stars: Culinary Edition.
And when dinner is finally ready, we don’t just plop down at the table with paper napkins and a mismatched fork from the drawer of shame. Oh no.
In my husband’s world, every meal deserves the ‘good’ dishes.
It doesn’t matter if it’s a perfectly seared filet mignon or Tuesday night tacos—we’re using real plates, cloth napkins, and setting the table like we’re hosting the Queen of England.
At first, this was a huge adjustment for me. I grew up in a house where paper towels doubled as napkins, and the ‘good’ dishes were only for Christmas and that one time the pastor came over. But now?
Now, I love it.
Because sitting down at a beautifully set table makes every meal feel like something special.
The Recipe Ritual
Every morning, he asks, “What do you want for dinner tonight?”—a question that holds way too much power.
You see, my dietician gives me recipes every week. And, like clockwork, my eating habits follow a predictable downward spiral:
Monday: "Super healthy week ahead! Salmon and quinoa, please!"
Tuesday: "Still strong! Grilled chicken and roasted veggies."
Wednesday: "Feeling a little hungry. How about tacos? But the healthy kind."
Thursday: "What’s one little side of mac and cheese?"
Friday: "Technically, pizza has all the food groups…"
Saturday: "We should make cookies. For science."
Sunday: "Let’s eat like kings and start fresh tomorrow."
And my husband? He adjusts accordingly. He doesn’t question. He doesn’t judge. He just nods, smiles, and makes whatever I ask for, whether it’s a gourmet kale salad or a four-cheese pasta that could bring a grown man to tears.
More Than Just a Meal
But the best part? It’s not just about the food.
It’s about the joy of making something together—even if my only contribution is providing moral support and snack theft. It’s about slowing down, savoring the moment, and knowing that even the most ordinary weeknight dinner can feel like something special.
So yes, I married a man who can cook. A man who once worked on a cruise ship, who knows how to plate a dish like it’s going on a magazine cover, and who somehow turns a regular Tuesday into a culinary experience.
But more than that?
I married a man who believes that every meal deserves a little ceremony. A man who takes the time to set the table, fold the cloth napkins, and make even the simplest meal feel like an occasion.
And somehow, between the dancing, the cooking, and the beautifully set table, he’s convinced me that food isn’t just about eating—it’s about celebrating life, one meal at a time.
