Perhaps one of the biggest simultaneous blessings and curses in life is to be somehow “tied” to a person that likes to cook meals for you. (Or even just in general, and you happen to be the “beneficiary.”) Whether that person is your romantic “partner,” your family member, your roommate—anyone, really, that lives with you, you will be condemned to a life that revolves around their cooking. Which, at first, will seem like the blessing part of what is, in many ways, just a curse. Because, yes, theoretically, who wouldn’t love to have that aspect of life’s daily tedium taken out of the mix for them? After all, it’s like a form of being absolved of one of the most primary quotidian tasks that few people can ever really get out of, unless they genuinely plan on spending a boatload of cash eating out for all three meals a day. Or even just two, if you’re one of those people that skips breakfast—much to the “from beyond the grave” dismay of John Harvey Kellogg.

Alice was not one of those people. She was very much a “three square meals a day” person. And like all “stereotypical” Americans, she had a particular hard-on for breakfast. Though, after getting together and moving in with Joe (whose real name was Giuseppe), her hard-on for breakfast stemmed less from the fare itself and more from the fact that it was the only meal of her day when she could actually 1) choose for herself what was put in front of her and 2) prepare it herself without any risk of anger or intervention. This was because Joe, as an Italian man, did not see the merit—the value—in breakfast. Italians, after all, had scant things to choose from in the morning: biscotti or maybe a cornetto. But, by and large, it seemed that most Italians fueled themselves solely with shots of espresso in the mattina and then went off to take on their giorno. Somehow lasting all the way to the lunch hour without passing out from feelings of being famished. Alice could and would never. Especially not now that she realized Joe was so disinterested in anything to do with breakfast that it gave her free rein to eat when and what she wanted in ways that lunch and dinner did not.

And while one might assume that lunch ought to be open to her as well, at least during the workweek, neither Alice nor Joe had jobs that required them to be onsite. Which meant Joe was only too eager to “unwind” from the rigors of his remote position as a transcriber (from Italian to English, naturalmente) to get in the kitchen and start cooking, while Alice, in her own office, cringed at the sounds of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen as they were removed from drawers. In the beginning of their “living together” relationship, Alice viewed having her lunch made for her as a boon. Taking the effort of both thinking up what to eat and actually making it out of the equation for her. But, over time, she came to see it as an annoyance. Not least of which was because there were often times when she just wanted to shove any old slop into her mouth as soon as she got done nodding along on whatever goddamn Zoom meeting she had to be present for (the crux of her job as a mid-level manager was to be on Zoom meetings all day).

With Joe “on premises,” hovering around the kitchen like a culinary sentry, Alice was left with no choice but to let him take over, every day. Because she learned the hard way what it meant to go against his “wishes” when it came to making the kitchen his domain. To “serving” her nothing but the very best. The few times she had tried to insist on making her own food, Joe all but went into a frenzy, admonishing her for her desire to make anything less than cinque stelle. Because, in his mind, there was nothing Alice could possibly cook that would ever rival or even come close to what he could cook for her. Maybe he wasn’t wrong. In fact, Alice knew he was probably right. But it bothered her that he simply assumed she could never compare to him, chef-wise. And even if she couldn’t, wasn’t it her goddamn right to eat whatever the hell she wanted, whenever the hell she wanted?

This obsession of Joe’s with feeding her—the right way—had become far more trouble than it was worth. An absolute scourge upon her existence. And, admittedly, it was turning her off of food entirely. Which was quite a shame, as it used to be one of the few “activities” she took pleasure in. Now, however, it was something she dreaded. A chore to be obliged. As much as cooking everything herself would have been. Except, as she imagined it now from this new (and imprisoning) vantage point, at least in the latter scenario, she would have kept her own agency.

Though some would ask why she didn’t just fight more passionately to get her “right to cook” back, over time, she learned to go along to get along with Joe’s pure fixation—need, really—to prepare every meal except breakfast. Which was, again, her sanctuary. Her port in the storm. That’s when she could finally get creative in the kitchen, whipping up waffles or pancakes or French toasts (about which Joe informed her she should at least make the Italian version, pane fritto) or omelets or bacon and two eggs over easy or bagels with lox and cream cheese or eggs Benedict—the possibilities were endless. At least, in the morning. But come afternoon, all bets were off and she was back to being a slave to Joe’s epicurean whims. Dictums, more like it. Funnily, you couldn’t spell “dictums” without Tums, and Alice was starting to take a lot more of those since falling in love with Joe. A practice he balked at, chalking it up to her weak American stomach rather than any of the ingredients he might be cooking with.

Still, Alice kept going through the motions of daily eating the cuisine he so gingerly placed in front of her (handling it almost as though it were something truly holy). Until one day, something inside her (possibly her stomach) seemed to finally snap. As if her body could take no more of this force-feeding. And since her head didn’t have the mind to say something, then, well, apparently her body would. For she proceeded to vomit nonstop for roughly two minutes straight onto the table after taking just one bite of Joe’s unwanted meal. Incidentally, that happened to be ossobuco served over polenta.

She should have liked it. Loved it. That’s what Joe said to the doctor later after taking her to the hospital when she wouldn’t stop vomiting intermittently throughout the rest of the day. But Alice could no longer pretend to love anything that she didn’t truly want. Which, in the end, meant letting go of Joe. The live-in chef of some other woman’s dreams…that would also probably turn into a nightmare.