My Wife, the Cooking Pro
Ask her to cook, and shed mistake salt for sugar or dish soap for oil. Send her to the market, and shed return with wilted, yellowed cabbage, unable to tell it was spoiled. No matter how much I taught her, every time she entered the kitchen, chaos followed.
So, over our three years of marriage, the kitchen slowly became my territory alone. I often joked with friends, If my wife ever left me, shed probably live on takeout forever.
That changed when I went on a business trip. Worried she wasnt eating well, I checked our smart home app. To my shock, the woman who couldnt even light a stove was wearing my apron, expertly reducing sauce for braised pork and stir-frying with fluid, confident movements.
Sitting on our sofa was a man Id only seen in her phone album. My wife, Claire, arranged the dishes gracefully before him, handed him utensils carefully, and gazed at him with a tenderness Id never seen. David, she said softly, I promised these hands would cook only for you. All these years, I kept my word.
Staring motionless at the screen, a deep silence washed over me.
She wasnt a bad cookshe had simply saved every bit of her culinary warmth for someone else.
1
When I got back from my trip, my plan was to wait for Claire to get home and confront her about what I saw on the monitor.
But when I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a few takeout containers artfully placed at the top of the trash bin. Then I looked at the stovetop, polished to a mirror shine. Even the pots and pans were arranged in the exact same way Id left them.
The fire of anger and betrayal inside me was suddenly extinguished, replaced by an icy dread.
Two years of dating, three years of marriage. For five years, Claire had flawlessly played the part of a kitchen idiot.
When we first got married, I had daydreams of us cooking together, a cozy, domestic scene. But every time Claire set foot in the kitchen, it was a catastrophe.
A simple stir-fried vegetable dish? Shed use sugar instead of salt, serving up something sickeningly sweet.
A pot of soup? Shed burn it to a black crisp, ruining an expensive enamel pot.
She couldn't light the stove, couldn't tell one green leaf from another, couldn't distinguish between spices. The kitchen was a war zone after she was done with it.
Patiently, I would clean up the mess while trying to teach her.
She would just stand aside and sigh helplessly. "I guess I just don't have the talent for cooking. It's a good thing I married such a capable husband, or Id probably have blown up the kitchen by now."
I believed her. I thought she was genuinely, naturally unsuited for cooking, so I gladly took over all the meals.
Only now did I realize the truth. Her skills were exquisite; it was just that her warmth, her fire, was reserved for another.
While Claire was working late, I found the man from the video.
To my shock, he was living in the old apartment Claire and I had shared before we bought our house. Claire had told me shed rented it to a friend of a colleague.
Apparently, that "friend" was the man from her photo album. David.
Seeing him standing in front of me, I felt a strange sense of dislocation.
When I first met Claire, I'd jokingly asked her what her ideal type was.
She'd answered without hesitation, "Dark curly hair, pale skin, and two dimples when he smiles."
At the time, I dismissed it as a girlish fantasy. I had seen Davids photo once, but only for a fleeting second before Claire snatched the phone away and deleted it. It wasn't until I saw his face today that I understood. Her ideal type was never a fantasy; it was a checklist based on a real person.
I look nothing like David, but I never forgot what she said. Over the years, I'd started perming my hair and taking better care of my skin. Except for the dimples, at a quick glance, I suppose I did start to resemble him.
And yet, my wife's affection for the two of us was worlds apart.
Claire and I met when we were 24 and married at 26. Now, approaching 30, I thought we were set for a lifetime of happiness. I always told myself, she just can't cook. Nobody's perfect. I can do a little more.
For five years, she hadn't lifted a finger in the kitchen. Even when I was bedridden with a fever, she never once made me a simple bowl of soup.
But for David, she would tie on an apron and spend an entire afternoon at the stove, whispering promises that her hands were for him alone.
I had given her five years of my heart, and I never even knew what her real cooking tasted like.
All the questions I wanted to scream at him boiled down to one, pathetic curiosity.
"David," I asked, my voice hollow, "is Claire a good cook?"
2
David looked startled, as if he hadn't expected that question.
Not about his relationship with Claire, not about why he was living in our old place. But about her cooking.
A look of pity crossed his face, followed by a smug, satisfied smile.
"You didn't know, did you?" he said, his voice laced with condescension. "Back in the day, I told her offhandedly that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. Without a second thought, she went and got a professional culinary degree."
He leaned back. "I mentioned once that her braised pork was just okay, so she practiced it dozens of times. Now it's her signature dish. After all these years abroad, I really missed her... braised pork."
I was floored.
When I first met Claire, I wasn't much of a cook either. But knowing she was a picky eater, I spent my days watching tutorials, learning to make new and different dishes for her. I knew she loved braised pork, so I practiced it endlessly. At first, I'd either burn the caramel or the meat would be bland. Claire would always frown and meticulously point out everything I'd done wrong.
I kept at it until my hands were covered in burns from the hot oil. The day I finally perfected it, Claire took one bite and froze. She was silent for a long time, a strange, faraway look in her eyes.
I didn't know what memory she was savoring then. But I understood now.
Watching my expression, David slowly stood up and took a pristine glass container from his fridge. He opened it with a deliberate slowness, as if unveiling a priceless treasure.
"Claire made these this morning. Sweet and sour ribs. But you probably know she's never liked sweet food."
"But I love it," he continued, his eyes glinting. "She once consulted a Michelin-starred chef just for me, to get this recipe right. She said you have to tweak the sugar and vinegar ratio over and over to get that perfect balance. That's why she was up before dawn today making them."
I stared at the ribs, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest.
I love sweet and sour ribs.
The year I was trying to win her over, I learned to make that exact dish, practicing until the flavor was perfect. But when I served it, her face fell. She threw down her utensils and accused me of not knowing her at all.
I was completely baffled. It was only later that I learned she didn't eat sweet dishes. I felt guilty for a long time and tried to make it up to her. I even fed the entire plate of ribs to a stray dog downstairs right in front of her to prove my remorse.
From that day on, I never made another sweet dish. I was even careful about adding too much sugar to my stir-fries.
My eyes stung, but I let out a bitter laugh. "Is there more?"
David frowned, confused. "What are you, a masochist? You think hearing more will make you give her up to me?"
I smiled faintly. "You never know."
His eyes lit up. He opened his laptop. His inbox was filled with hundreds of unread emails, all from Claire.
The last one was sent three years ago, the night before our wedding.
"David, I'm getting married tomorrow. I know you're busy and rarely have time to reply, but I wanted to tell you this. You once said you wanted your own personal chef. I've never forgotten that. I'm a certified Master Chef now. I have so many dishes I'm great at. And even though my name will be on another man's marriage certificate, I swear to you, these hands will never cook for anyone but you. This is my permanent promise to us."
I read every word, my vision blurring and clearing.
I finally understood why Claire had always been so critical of my cooking. It was never about the technique or the flavor. It was about the person making the food.
Since she had already promised her culinary skills and her heart to someone else, then I didn't want this wife anymore.
There are plenty of women in this world who know how to cook.
3
I drew up the divorce papers. It was late when I got home, but I knew Claire would be even later. After all, she had someone else to be with.
I found the old wooden box that had been gathering dust for years. Claire had told me it contained confidential work documents and that I was never to touch it. But I knew what was really inside: her journals and her Master Chef certificate.
I opened a journal. Page after page was filled with details of her five years with David, from high school through college. All the sweet nothings I'd never heard, all the romantic gestures I thought she was incapable of, had been given to another man long before she ever met me.
Claire came home late that night, calling out habitually as she walked in.
"Honey, is dinner ready?"
She searched the kitchen and the fridge but found nothing. Usually, I'd greet her with a smile. Tonight, I didn't even leave the bedroom.
She came to find me, a frown on her face. "Why didn't you cook? I came home starving, specifically to eat with you."
I kept scrolling on my phone, not looking up. "I'm tired. If you're hungry, make something yourself."
Her face flushed with anger, her voice rising. "You know I can't cook!"
"Oh," I said flatly. "Then I guess you'll go hungry. I'm going to sleep."
Sensing my unusual coldness, her tone softened. She came and sat on the bed, trying to coax me. "How about you just make a bowl of noodles? Please? I worked late, and I'm so hungry. Don't you feel bad for me?"
With all emotion stripped away, I looked up at the face I had slept next to for three years and felt like I was looking at a stranger. I had just gotten back from a business trip myself. Had she shown an ounce of concern for me?
A Master Chef who had pretended to be a kitchen klutz for five years. She had watched me toil day in and day out, getting up to cook for her whether I was sick or exhausted, all so she could keep a promise to the one that got away.
I couldn't take it anymore. My face hardened.
"I said I'm tired. I'm not cooking. Get out and let me sleep."
Just then, her stomach growled loudly. That was the last straw for her. "What the hell is wrong with you tonight? Fine, don't cook! I'll go eat out!"
She slammed the door on her way out.
She didn't come back that night.
I no longer cared where she went or what she ate. I just had a good, long sleep.
The next day, I met with my lawyer and settled the divorce arrangements. Then, I went to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet by myself.
For years, to accommodate Claire, I couldn't eat seafood, cilantro, mangoes, or eggs. Everything she disliked had vanished from my life.
But now I was discovering that satisfying my own stomach was far more important than pleasing a woman.
Halfway through my meal, a message popped up on my phone.
It was Claire.
"It's our anniversary today. Since you don't feel like cooking, let's go out to a nice restaurant."
In previous years, I was always the one who excitedly brought up our anniversary. I'd take a half-day off work and cook a huge feast, just to make it special. And she, the woman who never cooked, would always find something to criticize, all under the guise of "improving my skills" and "enhancing our marital happiness."
A second message followed immediately.
"Did you go see David yesterday?"
"He's just a tenant. Please don't bother him."
It clicked. So that's why she suddenly remembered our anniversary. She was afraid I'd disturb her precious first love.
I laughed out loud and typed back, "Don't worry, I won't bother him."
After all, I was about to leave her.
After I finished eating, I called her.
"Claire, let's not go out tonight. Come home. I'll cook."
This would be our last meal together.
When I first pursued her, I won her over with a meal. Now, I would end it with one.
A fitting end to a beginning.
First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "320137" to read the entire book.
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