It was a time in my life when everything felt out of control. Sleepless nights with a newborn and the chaos of adjusting to motherhood had become my new normal. And just when I thought I had it all figured out, my husband, Derek, started coming home with the strangest excuse every evening. “I’m not hungry,” he’d say, brushing off dinner without even a second glance.
At first, I thought maybe it was just stress. Maybe he was tired from work. But soon, I realized something much bigger was going on behind my back. And that’s when I knew—I wasn’t going to scream. I wasn’t going to cry. No, I was going to get my revenge in a way that would make him remember this forever.
“Shhh, it’s okay, baby girl,” I whispered to my four-month-old daughter, Sophie, as I rocked her gently in one arm. The other stirred a pot of chili on the stove. “Mommy’s just making dinner for Daddy. He’ll be home soon.”
Maternity leave was a strange blur of days that seemed to melt together. I couldn’t tell if it was Tuesday or Saturday. I barely had the energy to function on caffeine and whatever snacks I could manage to eat with one hand, but I still made dinner every night. Nothing fancy—just simple, filling meals to help us survive this newborn chaos: stir-fry, chili, mac and cheese with hidden veggies.
When Derek walked through the door that evening, I greeted him with a tired smile. “Hey, dinner’s almost ready. Just warming up some of yesterday’s chili.”
He kissed me on the forehead, barely looking at the food. “Thanks, but I’m not really hungry. I had a big lunch with the Johnson account today.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Well, it’ll keep if you want some later.”
This wasn’t the first time it had happened. For weeks now, Derek had been dodging my meals with a rotating list of excuses.
“Heavy food makes me sluggish at night,” he’d said the week before.
“I’m trying to eat lighter in the evenings,” he’d claimed another time.
Before Sophie was born, Derek always finished his plate and often asked for seconds. But now? I couldn’t help but wonder what had changed.
One morning, after a sleepless night with Sophie, I finally collapsed onto the couch while she napped. As I mindlessly scrolled through our bank app, looking for ways to stretch our budget, I found something that made my stomach drop.
Charges from restaurants: $63 at The Golden Fork Bistro. $54 at Eastwood Steakhouse. $48 at Louie’s Urban Tacos.
My heart raced. Surely I was seeing things. But as I scrolled through the last three weeks of charges, the pattern became undeniable. Derek had been eating out… almost every day. All while telling me he wasn’t hungry or had a big lunch.
My hands shook as I took screenshots of the charges and sent them to Derek with one simple message: “Full yet?”
His response came back quickly: “Babe. I just need a break from your food. You cook the same things all the time. I’m not mad, just being honest.”
I stared at the message, stunned. I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. But instead of firing back an angry reply, I took a deep breath and typed: “Okay. Thanks for telling me. 😊”
That was the moment when a plan started to form in my mind.
After the truth came out, Derek started bringing takeout home. “To share,” he said. But there was always one catch—he never ordered anything for me. It was always just his meal, while I nursed Sophie. I was lucky if I got a few of his fries.
At first, he probably thought this would make up for weeks of secret meals out, but it only added fuel to my fire. He didn’t know it yet, but the game was on.
One night, after Sophie finally fell asleep, I stayed up late working on my laptop. By morning, “L’Amour du Goût — luxury for the everyday palate” was born.
I’d created a fancy website on Canva, designed professional-looking menus, set up a fake email, and bought a burner phone. My alter ego, “Chef Claude,” was ready to go. Now, it was time to set the trap.
That evening, when Derek’s usual delivery arrived, I slipped a glossy card into his bag while he was in the bathroom. The card read: “Enjoyed your order? Try something exclusive. No menu repeats. Ever. Text this number to be added to our exclusive client list.”
The number led straight to my burner phone.
Three days later, my burner phone buzzed. “Saw your card. I’m interested. – Derek.”
I grinned and replied as Chef Claude: “Bienvenue! Your private chef journey begins tomorrow. Deliveries at 6:30 p.m. Text CONFIRM to start.”
“CONFIRM,” came his reply.
I couldn’t believe it. Hook, line, and sinker.
The next day, while Derek was at work and Sophie napped, I prepared my first “luxury meal.”
Air Poached Root Slivers (plain boiled carrots).
Deconstructed Gluten Reduction Cake (a plain rice cake with a smear of mayo).
Basil Whisper Soup (warm water with a single basil leaf).
I arranged the sad meal in fancy containers, wrote a note on expensive-looking cardstock that read “Chef Claude’s Daily Creation,” and hid it all in the back of the garage fridge.
At 6:25 that evening, I excused myself, grabbed the fancy delivery bag, and placed it on our front step before quickly knocking on the door and rushing back inside.
From the kitchen, I listened as Derek unpacked his “gourmet” meal. I half expected complaints, or for him to call up to me, but there was nothing. Just silence.
When I returned 30 minutes later with Sophie in my arms, the containers were empty, and Derek was watching TV.
“So, how was your dinner?” I asked innocently.
“Fine,” he replied, eyes still on the screen. “Different. Kind of subtle flavors.”
I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. “That’s nice.”
The next night’s “luxury meal” was even worse:
Fennel-Misted Protein Pillow (a hard-boiled egg in a cup),
Artisan Airbag Chips (three stale popcorn pieces),
Ambrosia Reduction (one gummy bear melted onto a spoon).
Again, I performed my delivery routine. Again, Derek ate it all without a word of complaint.
But by night three, when I delivered a single longstemmed broccoli labeled “Vertical Garden Monolith” and a teaspoon of plain yogurt called “Cloud Harvest,” Derek couldn’t take it anymore.
My burner phone buzzed: “Is this a joke?”
I stayed in character, replying: “Chef Claude does not entertain those who question culinary genius. Perhaps your palate is not refined enough for our offerings.”
That’s when I knew it was time for the grand finale.
That weekend, I invited my two closest mom friends over for dinner. Lisa and Jen had been in on the plan from the start, brainstorming ridiculous food names and cheering me on.
“He still has no idea?” Lisa asked as she peeled potatoes for our real, delicious dinner of roast chicken, crispy potatoes, and chocolate cake.
“Not a clue,” I confirmed, grinning. “He thinks this dinner party is his break from Chef Claude.”
“You’re my hero,” Jen said, grinning as she slid the chicken into the oven.
When Derek came home, he sniffed the air appreciatively. “Smells amazing in here.”
“We’ve been cooking all afternoon,” I said sweetly. “Why don’t you relax? Dinner’s almost ready.”
When it was time to serve, Lisa and Jen brought their plates to the table, heaping with golden chicken and roasted potatoes. I followed with a small tray for Derek—containing a rice cake, a boiled carrot, and a gummy bear.
As I placed it in front of him, I smiled brightly. “Bon appétit. Chef Claude sends his regards.”
Derek stared at the plate, then at me, then back at the plate. The room went quiet except for Lisa and Jen’s barely contained giggles.
“Wait…” he said slowly, his eyes widening. “YOU’RE Chef Claude? That restaurant… it’s all fake?”
I smiled sweetly. “I figured if you didn’t like my food, maybe you’d prefer something… curated.”
Lisa and Jen burst into laughter, and after a moment of stunned silence, Derek joined in, though his laugh was tinged with embarrassment.
“You got me,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I can’t believe you ate stale popcorn and called it ‘different,’” I replied.
Later that night, after our friends had left and Sophie was asleep, Derek and I sat on the sofa, enjoying real slices of chocolate cake.
“I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice sincere. “I felt… I don’t know, trapped, I guess. Everything changed so fast with Sophie, and those dinners out were like my escape.”
“You could have talked to me,” I said gently. “Instead of lying and making me feel like my cooking was the problem.”
“I know. I was selfish. And stupid.” He took my hand. “But you have to admit, your revenge was pretty brilliant.”
I smiled, but then grew serious. “This isn’t magically fixed with one apology. I need to know we’re a team.”
“We are,” he insisted. “From now on, let’s plan takeout nights together. No more secrets, no more sneaking.”
“And maybe you could help cook a couple of nights a week?” I suggested.
“Deal.”
And Derek kept his promise. He started helping with dinner twice a week and made sure to compliment every meal, even if it was just frozen pizza. He even volunteered to take night duty with Sophie so I could get some sleep.
As for “L’Amour du Goût,” I left the website up, just in case. Because sometimes, even the best husbands need a little reminder about what it means to be a good partner.