Why Is Dinner Such a Pain in the Ass?

No one prepared me for the big ask of eating with someone every night for the rest of my life. WTF?

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Wayne Thiebaud Sanwhich #1

Dear Beautiful Friends,

How do you feel when the person you love the most asks:

“What should we do for dinner?”

If you snort fire from your nose and want to throw sharp objects—even though it’s a reasonable question—this one’s for you. Because honesty, and laughing at ourselves, especially where we struggle and think we shouldn’t, but then discover we’re not alone is B E A U T Y all the way. xo

If you hit the ❤️ at the top or bottom of this post, you'll hear me yelp with joy + make it easier for other people to find Beauty Hunter.

The Tyranny of Dinner

The argument occurs at 3 p.m. on a Tuesday. I shuffle from my office into the kitchen, where my husband stares out the window at a freshly mowed lawn. We greet each other with a kiss. Aren’t we sweet, I think, as Steve rubs my neck. And then, the dreaded question drops:

“What should we do for dinner?”  

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I snap, taking a few steps back.

“I know you haven’t,” my husband sighs, “that’s why I’m asking. I want to go to the store before the crowds.”

I search for a kinder version of: “Why the hell do I have to decide, you decide!,” which is exactly what I end up saying. I’m peeved that Steve stopped cooking for us after I left my office job and switched the burden to me; Steve’s fed up with my shifting food preferences and is closed for business. And so, we bicker about dinner, again.

I was late to the game of marriage, swapping vows for the first time at 49, with Steve, a widower who brought 33 years of marriage, two grown kids, and grandchildren into my world. In exchange, my husband, a retired businessman who wants to talk about dinner at breakfast, pledged himself to a writer accustomed to improv meals, quick bites over the sink, and eating pasta and peas for weeks on end.

Never, ever in all my singleton years of envisioning Life-With-Another did I imagine that dinner, something I looked forward to with a romantic partner, would spark such marital discord. I was prepared for the Known Relationship Issues: money, sex, kids, communication, housework, careers. Dinner should be added to this list! After all, dinner is the whole enchilada, challenging our compatibility, independence, gender stereotypes, cultural differences, and power struggles. Dinner is relentless and non-negotiable. It comes around every single day, and we need it to live. 

Since Steve was the first man I’d lived with, I thought the dinner problem was uniquely mine, the result of doing what I wanted and when I wanted for most of my adult life. But once I started asking around, the clouds lifted:

The tyranny of dinner was tormenting households all over town.

“When my husband asks what’s for dinner, I want to divorce him,” groaned a marketing executive friend who is also a foodie and recipe collector.

“I can’t wait to go into a retirement home and never cook again,” a recent empty nester admitted. “That will improve my marriage more than a therapist.”

“I love it when my husband leaves town,” a neighbor told me. “I can’t wait to eat nothing but cereal for dinner, and enjoy the quiet.” She sighed dreamily.

I’d make pasta every night if I could. PS. Steve and I love to entertain.

WHY, OH WHY THE TROUBLES?

We fight over dinner because dinner is complicated. That dreaded question, “What shall we do for dinner?” is a hand grenade exploding with all kinds of problems to solve at the end of an already decision-packed day: What food can we settle on that will please our separate palates? Who will get this food, and then make it? Which food groups do we need to cover? How can I ask my husband to use less salt without getting on his nerves?

Let’s not forget the Mother-of-All resentments, which Steve sums up with a flourish as: “Do I have to do all the work around here?” 

I sum up the problem as: “There are too many meals!”

The Romans had it right: they ate once a day, at midday. For most of human existence we’ve eaten when we’ve felt like it, and not according to time. It wasn’t until the Industrial Revolution of the 19^th century, and the invention of a full, structured workday, that people took to fortifying themselves with a pre-work and a half-day meal, which later became breakfast and lunch. And so, we inherited a three-meal day and a twenty-one-meal week. If you add in snacks, that’s a lot of food to consider over a week.

My brother, Michael, a professional chef, can’t get enough of making the meals. He’s amazing. He’s also for hire and consults. I’m your gateway to him.

A few years into my marriage, the truth began to unfurl in the space that exists between the idealized marriage and the real one. I wasn’t the jolly domestic artist I’d hoped to be, humming in the kitchen as sauces simmered on the stove. I wasn’t delighted to try new recipes like many of my friends; my palate wasn’t adventurous, and food was not an area of curiosity or creativity. Instead, I grumbled while chopping vegetables and banging out the same pasta, kitchen-sink salad, and a favorite spicy bean soup. I didn’t LOVE to cook, I didn’t HATE it; I LIKED to cook, and that’s about it.
BTW: I do, however LOVE to entertain, as does Steve. Feelings about the nightly repaste and having people over don’t have to inform each other.

ENTER, REALITY

This year I’ve been exploring what it would take to make peace with dinner. Here’s my three-point plan:

First, it’s time to get real with myself. I will never wake up one morning and JUSTLIKETHAT love to cook. Steve’s OK with that; now it’s my turn. One night several years ago, all I could muster up was a dollop of spinach and a cup of tea.

Husband overjoyed about dinner.

Secondly: The evening meal will always be both an anticipated comfort and a dreaded pain in the ass. There will be many days when the evening meal unfolds naturally. Sometimes there will be a new recipe I want to try! Other afternoons, I’ll resent Steve for stroking my neck in that soft perfect way he does while asking “Thought about dinner yet?”

Thirdly, remember: Every single night, food will somehow spring forth onto our plates. A dinner’s prelude might include a cluster of sharp words, or it could be Steve firing up the grill. But always, my husband and I will sit down together and marvel at the tastiness before us, surprised, again, by our resourcefulness.

We can be flexible. One day, I’ll come home with a bag of tortilla chips and see how easily Steve complies with a chips-and-salsa dinner. Another evening, Steve will make stir fry with the hateful slimy mushrooms and I will murmur my appreciation. We will climb into bed and sleep with our bodies touching. Dinner has once again been achieved. Our love is intact. Let this be the answer to what’s for dinner. 

If you hit the ❤️ at the top or bottom of this post, you will MAKE MY DAY + make it easier for other people to find Beauty Hunter.

P.S. Special thanks to

Meghan Daum

whose been a mentor and teacher, and in whose op-ed class I first wrote this. If you’re a personal essayist, don’t miss a chance to be in a workshop or class with Meghan. She’s magic, and a lot of fun.