Every meal I cooked felt like a test, but I wasn’t the one grading it. My husband, Daniel, sent photos of every dish to his mother for approval. And each time, her opinion arrived before he even took a bite. I put up with it for a while—until I decided it was time to turn the tables and teach him a lesson he’d never forget.
I love cooking. The smell of onions sizzling in butter, the warmth of the oven, and the satisfaction of setting a plate down in front of someone I love—it makes me happy. So, when I married Daniel, I took pride in making our meals. I wanted our home to feel cozy and full of good food. And for the most part, it was.
Until she started eating at our table.
Not physically, of course. Carol, my dear mother-in-law, lived a whole state away. But every time I cooked, her opinions found their way into our dining room like an unwelcome guest.
It started small.
One night, I made spaghetti. Simple, classic. I set the plates down, and before I could even grab my fork, Daniel lifted his phone, snapped a picture, and sent a text.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Just showing Mom,” he said with a shrug. “She likes seeing what I eat.”
I let it go. But five minutes later, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen and grinned.
“Mom says the sauce looks a little runny. Maybe next time, use less water.”
I laughed, but not because it was funny. “Did she teleport through the screen and taste it?”
“She just knows,” he said, twirling his fork.
It got worse. Cookies? “A little overbaked.” Steak? “Medium rare is unsafe. She always cooks it through.” Chili? “Needs more cumin.”
At first, I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. She had opinions. So what? But then came the lasagna.
I spent hours on that meal. Homemade sauce, fresh herbs, three different cheeses—perfection. I pulled it from the oven, golden and bubbling. I plated it, proud of my work.
Daniel took his usual photo and sent it. Then, the text came.
“Mom says it looks dry. Did you forget the ricotta? You know, Mom just knows best.”
Something inside me snapped. I put my fork down. “Do you even taste my food before you send it off for judgment?”
He chuckled.
I clenched my jaw so tight I thought I might break a tooth.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while Daniel texted his mom, probably rating my lasagna like a contestant on a cooking show.
I was done. Carol’s opinion wasn’t just a passing comment anymore—it was law. Her way was the right way. And Daniel? He worshipped at the altar of Carol’s kitchen.
“She’s been cooking since she was a kid,” he said when I mentioned how often he criticized my meals. “She just has an eye for this stuff.”
“An eye?” I scoffed. “Daniel, she’s not even here. She’s judging my food through a pixelated photo.”
He waved a hand. “It’s harmless.”
Was it?
One evening, Carol called while we were eating. Daniel answered on speakerphone.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, her voice all warm and sugary. “Did you eat yet?”
“Yeah, we’re eating now,” he said, chewing.
“Oh, what did she make?”
I gripped my fork.
“Chicken stir-fry,” Daniel said.
Carol hummed. “Stir-fry? You know, you used to love my stir-fry. I always made sure the veggies weren’t soggy. The trick is to—”
I slammed my fork down.
Daniel blinked at me. “What?”
I stood. “You can finish your mother-approved meal on your own.”
I left the table.
That night, I lay awake again, listening to Daniel type away on his phone. Probably reporting my overreaction to his beloved food critic.
Enough. Time for payback.
The next evening, I went all out.
Chicken Parmesan—Daniel’s absolute favorite. Crispy, golden breaded chicken, homemade marinara, melted mozzarella, all on a bed of perfectly cooked pasta. I even garnished it with fresh basil, like something straight out of a fancy restaurant.
Daniel walked in, sniffing the air. “Wow,” he said, dropping his keys. “This looks amazing.”
I smiled sweetly, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Glad you think so.”
He sat down, reaching for his phone—but before he could snap his usual picture, I beat him to it.
Click.
Daniel frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, just sending a picture to my mom,” I said casually, fingers tapping away.
His face twisted. “You’re joking, right?”
I hit send. Except I sent it to his mom.
“Hi Carol! I worked so hard on this meal. Hope it meets your standards. Let me know if I should throw it straight in the trash. 😊”
Daniel’s phone buzzed instantly. His hand twitched, ears turning red. He read the message but didn’t reply. Instead, he set his phone down, fork hovering over his plate.
I raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead, take a bite. Or do you need Carol’s approval first?”
Silence. Without another word, he shoved his phone into his pocket and kept eating.
Victory tasted just like Chicken Parmesan.
For the next few weeks, things were… better. Daniel stopped taking pictures of his food. He even started complimenting my cooking.
“This chicken is amazing, and the sauce is perfect.”
It was almost too good to be true. And, of course, it was.
One night, I overheard him whispering.
“No, I didn’t send a picture,” he murmured. “Yeah, I know, but she’s been touchy about it… No, I don’t think she’d like that… Okay, okay, fine. I’ll do it secretly.”
My stomach dropped.
I took a step forward. “Who’s that?”
Daniel nearly jumped out of his skin. He fumbled with his phone, forcing a casual laugh. “Uh… my mom.”
I crossed my arms. “And what exactly are you doing secretly?”
He hesitated. “Nothing, I was just—”
His guilty expression told me everything.
That night, I lay in bed, hands curled into fists. Enough was enough. It was time for a final lesson.
The next evening, I went all out. Steak—his favorite. Roasted potatoes. Freshly baked bread.
I set the table with candles, soft lighting—the whole romantic setup.
Daniel sat down. “Wow, this looks amazing.”
I smiled. “Hold on—I almost forgot.”
I snapped a picture. But not of the food.
Of him.
He blinked. “Uh… what was that?”
I smirked as I typed. Sent.
His phone buzzed. He paled.
“Hi Carol! This is Daniel eating my food. Thoughts? Should I let him finish or make him starve until he learns to appreciate me? 😊”
He looked at me, jaw slack. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, but I would.”
His phone buzzed again. He didn’t check it. Didn’t dare.
From that night on, Carol never ate at our table again.
Victory tasted even better than Chicken Parmesan.
