When my husband ridiculed my cooking with a PowerPoint show in front of our family, I felt crushed. But instead of lashing out, I planned my comeback.
I’d been married to Thane for nearly five years, and most days, we got along great. I loved cooking and thought I was pretty decent at it.
I’d been the family’s cook for years, and whenever we hosted, I’d spend hours crafting homemade lasagna, perfectly seasoned roasts, or detailed salads with dressings I made myself. It was my passion, and I was proud of it.
Thane, on the other hand, could barely handle instant ramen.
His rare attempts at cooking usually ended with takeout or, one time, a pan of scorched spaghetti because he forgot the water. Despite his lack of talent, he had this bold confidence about everything, including cooking.
Last Saturday, we had a family get-together at my mom’s house. As always, I was in charge of the main meal.
I spent the day marinating chicken, assembling lasagna, and mixing a vibrant salad. By the time everyone sat down, they were eager to eat, and the praise started pouring in.
Then, as everyone began digging in, I caught Thane giving me an odd smirk I couldn’t quite figure out. I tried to ignore it, thinking he was recalling some private joke. But then he cleared his throat and said, “You know, I’ve been keeping track of your cooking.”
I chuckled, assuming he was teasing. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
He continued, “I put together a little slideshow.” I thought he was joking, but no. He pulled out his phone, linked it to my mom’s TV, and opened a real PowerPoint titled “Enhancing Our Home Dining Experience.” The table went quiet, and I sat there, stunned.
“Here we go, folks,” he started, sounding like he was giving a lecture. “Slide 1: Too Much Garlic.” He clicked, and a photo of garlic bulbs appeared with the note, “Bold flavors can overwhelm the taste buds.”
My face flushed as he went on. “Thane, what’s this?”
Ignoring me, he pressed on. “Slide 2: Pasta Too Firm. Everyone knows pasta should be soft, not chewy,” he said, looking around like he expected nods of agreement.
My sister Rhea let out a nervous giggle, and my dad Elton coughed into his napkin. I was humiliated but too shocked to speak.
Then he showed “Slide 3: Salad Needs More Salt,” explaining to the table how “a skilled cook knows salt enhances flavors.”
Finally, he ended with a photo of Gordon Ramsay facepalming, captioned, “What he’d think.” He leaned back with a smug grin, looking for applause.
The room was silent. My mom Mavis broke the quiet with a forced laugh. “Well, Thane, that’s… quite creative,” she said, trying to ease the tension.
I sat through the rest of dinner in silence, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye.
When we got home, I didn’t wait a second before turning to him. “Thane, what was that?” I asked.
“It was just for laughs, babe,” he said with a shrug. “You take cooking seriously, so I thought you’d like some pointers.”
“Pointers?” I snapped. “Thane, you humiliated me in front of my family! How could you think that was okay?”
“Chill,” he said, brushing it off. “You’re overreacting. I was just trying to help.”
“Help?” I echoed, stunned. “Thane, you can’t even toast bread without setting off the fire alarm. Who are you to judge my cooking?”
“It was a joke,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re being too sensitive.”
I stared at him, feeling my patience break. “Fine. If you’re such a food expert, cook for yourself. I’m done.”
He laughed, like he didn’t take me seriously. “Oh, come on, you’re not for real.”
“I’m completely serious, Thane,” I said, folding my arms. And I meant it.
After that humiliating dinner, I wasn’t letting Thane off the hook. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. But instead of shouting or moping, I decided on something smarter. If Thane thought PowerPoint was the way to go, I’d give him a presentation of my own.
Over the next week, I threw myself into creating “Enhancing Our Financial Future.” I couldn’t help but grin as I worked; my slides got more sarcastic with every detail. This would be my perfect payback, delivered with the same dramatic flair he’d used.
Slide 1 was called “Dreaming of a Vacation.” It opened with a bright stock photo of a sunny beach, complete with palm trees and clear blue waves.
Below, I wrote, “If we had more financial wiggle room, we could be here instead of stuck at home this summer!” I added a few bar graphs showing how our income made a beach trip “out of reach for now.”
Slide 2 was “Home Upgrades: If We Could Budget for Them.” A glossy, renovated kitchen filled the slide, with shiny appliances and stone countertops.
Underneath, I noted, “Picture the possibilities with a bit more cash!” I included a breakdown of his favorite weekly splurges (a subtle reality check disguised as humor) labeled, “Savings Potential: Cooking at Home.”
Slide 3 was “Fancy Dining (If We Didn’t Eat Out So Much),” featuring tempting photos of gourmet dishes from a nearby high-end restaurant.
I added a line chart comparing our monthly dining costs to what we’d need to save for a night at a place like that. A bit harsh, maybe, but I was enjoying myself too much to care.
Finally, I closed with “Goals for a Bright Financial Future.” For the last slide, I added an uplifting quote from a business leader about chasing dreams.
Below it, I inserted a motivational poster of a man in a suit pointing to the words, “Effort Pays Off.” It hit just the right mix of playful sarcasm.
The timing was perfect. We had another family gathering coming up, and I knew when to unveil my masterpiece.
On the day of the get-together, I kept a calm face through dinner, graciously accepting compliments on my lasagna without mentioning the last incident. Thane was all smiles, seeming to think the PowerPoint drama was forgotten. After dinner, as everyone relaxed in the living room, I stood up.
“Hey, everyone,” I said, clearing my throat with a smile, “I’ve got a little presentation to share.”
Thane looked at me, surprised. “Oh? What’s this about?”
“Just some thoughts I’ve been putting together.” I grabbed the remote and connected my laptop to the TV. The screen lit up with the title, “Enhancing Our Financial Future.”
A few relatives chuckled, glancing at Thane. He looked uneasy, like he was starting to catch on.
“Alright, Slide 1,” I said, clicking to the beach photo.
Thane’s face turned red as our family laughed. My mom Mavis gave me a knowing grin, catching my plan.
“Slide 2: Home Upgrades—If We Could Budget for Them.” I clicked to the renovated kitchen, showing off its sleek appliances.
Some relatives laughed outright, and my dad Elton nodded in approval. Thane squirmed in his seat, looking more awkward by the moment.
“Slide 3,” I went on, “Fancy Dining, and How Cutting Back Could Help.” By now, Thane looked like he wanted to vanish, his face flushed and eyes darting around.
Finally, I hit the last slide. I smiled and wrapped up, “With some focus and hard work, we can achieve anything, right?”
There was a brief silence before Mavis burst out laughing, followed by everyone else. Thane gave an awkward chuckle, trying to play along, though he was clearly less amused than the others.
When we got home, Thane shut the door and let out a long breath. “Okay, point taken,” he said, raising his hands. “I guess I had that coming.”
“You more than earned it,” I replied, folding my arms. “Maybe next time you’ll think before ‘critiquing’ my cooking in front of everyone.”
He nodded, his face softening. “You’re right. I went too far. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I thought I was being clever.”
“Now you know how it feels,” I said, easing my tone, glad he seemed to get it.
Thane gave a small, sheepish grin. “So… are you cooking again?”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Maybe,” I said, “but only if you keep the ‘feedback’ to yourself.”
“Deal,” he said, laughing. “You’re the chef from now on.”
And with that, our “PowerPoint battle” was officially done.
