This is All on the Table, a column featuring writers we love sharing stories of food, conflict, and community.
French toast was the first thing he cooked for me. It was made from banana bread he’d baked the day before, drenched in butter and syrup, bacon and eggs on the side. I’m not a breakfast person, and I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I went back for seconds. Though I was a 27-year-old food writer, I wasn’t very good at feeding myself. Most days I ignored my body’s hunger signals until I could barely function, then splurged on pizza or enchiladas from the Tex-Mex place around the corner. So of course I fell for the burly Midwesterner who let me sleep in while he threw together a grandiose meal.
I had yet to receive a diagnosis for my ADHD, and I assumed my complicated relationship with food was one of many character flaws, along with tardiness and impulsivity. I figured I’d outgrow it all. In the meantime I was pretty content living in a cheap, massive prewar apartment in a part of Kansas City that, 15 years ago, had just enough vacant real estate and take-out options for someone allergic to roommates, real jobs, and meal prep. I’d talked the landlord into letting me paint the cabinets a cheery robin’s-egg blue; since I was about to max out my credit card, I believed a mini renovation would motivate me to cook more often. It sort of worked. I started making my own dressing for my salad bar hauls, and once or twice a week, I dined on homemade roasted brussels sprouts and red wine. It was exactly what I wanted, and wholly satisfying.
When I was with Breakfast Guy, a more grown-up future felt within reach—one in which I could weather life’s challenges alongside a kind, bearded partner whose company I truly enjoyed. We shared the same taste in music, a love for the mountains, and a willingness to overspend on good meals. After three months of dating, he moved in. Our default arrangement worked for us: He cooked and I cleaned. And I still got to spend a few nights doing my own thing, plus some nights feasting with my man.
Lovestruck (and probably a little anemic), I gladly abandoned my salads and veggie bowls for his bacon cheeseburgers, cheddar-filled brats, and double-cut pork chops, served with some sort of potato and dessert. His dedication to decadence was endearing, as were the late-night nachos he made if I even hinted at being hungry.
I was full. Of pork, mashed potatoes, gratitude, love.
It was my idea to cut into a whole roast pig instead of a cake at our wedding, and after we ate our way down the West Coast at restaurants we’d read about for years like Beast, Chez Panisse, and Mission Chinese. But as soon as the honeymoon ended, something shifted between us. I worked up the nerve to broach the subject and was surprised when he told me he’d expected we’d eat together most nights, if not every night. He also wanted me to take charge of dinner more often.
I’d been working late at my publishing job and was thrilled when I could come home, pick at leftovers, and snuggle up to my new husband on the couch. And it was no secret that I got overwhelmed by the idea of preparing two people’s sustenance on a set schedule. Still, I wanted to be a good partner, and I was flattered (if slightly annoyed) by his desire for more quality time. So I acquiesced. It seemed easier than addressing the fact that we’d never had an actual conversation about the care, space, and attention we needed from each other.
My roast chickens didn’t eliminate the tension permeating our home, and eventually I accepted that marriage was just supposed to be hard.
When we welcomed a baby, I focused all my domestic energy on keeping a tiny human alive. Lactation issues and postpartum anxiety nearly broke me. My body craved fresh greens, but I didn’t have it in me to throw anything together. Every time my husband handed me a plate of something hearty he’d cooked, I got a fleeting sense of being in one of those “us against the world” partnerships I thought I’d signed up for.
Then, six years into my marriage, I was diagnosed with ADHD. This explained why I had trouble sticking to routines or starting seemingly simple tasks. It didn’t magically undo a lifetime of self-loathing, but I did learn to give myself some much-needed grace. I hoped my husband would too. Instead, we burned through couples counselors, focusing on my neurodivergence as the sole source of our struggles. In those rooms I came to understand that if I wanted a happy family, I needed to be a lot less…me.
I hardly recognized the person I saw in the mirror by the time I turned 41. Now with two small children, a full-time job, a book project, and a troubled marriage, I felt like I was in a never-ending game of Whac-A-Mole. I wore the same stale sweats for days, had no social life to speak of, and was ridiculously jealous of the unglamorous hotel rooms my husband had to himself as he traveled frequently for work. Something had to change, though I wasn’t sure what.
Couples counseling had only made things worse, so I decided to enroll in an intensive summer therapy program. If it didn’t fix me enough to save my marriage, at least I’d be able to say I tried everything I could. In addition to the sessions, I was encouraged to prioritize rest, sustenance, and activities that brought me joy. More than once the facilitating therapist told me: “You can’t make decisions from your wise mind if you’re sleep-deprived and hangry.”
I resolved to get back into the kitchen—for me this time. When my husband left on his next work trip, I went to the grocery store. I had no clue what I was going to make, but as I filled my cart with romaine hearts, shallots, cannellini beans, freshly shredded Parmesan, and french fried onions imported from France, a dish began to take shape in my head.
I got right to work rinsing beans, chopping the shallots, and whisking up a punchy balsamic vinaigrette. It was the kind of tedious prep that had prevented me from making the big, beautiful salads I’d been craving for so long. I tasted my weird bean mixture (it was fine) and stuck it in the fridge.
Once my sons were asleep, I tried the beans again. A few hours of marination had transformed them into bright, salty pillows I could’ve eaten by the spoonful. I spread them over a bed of romaine and garnished the whole thing with cheese and crispy onions. As I stood at the counter loading my fork with my favorite flavors and textures, my mind wandered back to when I was in my 20s, living alone in a big, cheap apartment. At that point I was still years away from understanding my brain in clinical terms, but I had cobbled together a series of scrappy systems that worked for me. Perhaps if I’d slowed down, I would have been able to articulate the other ways I longed to be loved. Or maybe not. All I know is I’d been far too eager to rush into what I imagined would be a new and exciting future with a man who could provide something I felt I was missing. Now I see the care I sought had to begin within me.
The therapy that was supposed to save my marriage helped me realize I needed to leave it. Not in some big aha revelation, but through many subtle moments, starting with the one I had eating that salad alone in the kitchen. After our separation, it was the first thing I made in my new apartment. I spooned the beans and toppings onto the lettuce and briefly considered giving the whole thing a drizzle of balsamic reduction for show, but I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The salad was perfect already. It had everything I needed.
