“Coca-Cola chicken?” My hubby looked nervous at the sound of that. “I’ve never heard of that before. Coca-Cola and chicken — I wouldn’t have thought to pair them.”

“Oh yes, the Coca-Cola caramelizes the chicken,” I explained knowingly. “The author says it’s a big hit at parties.”

Yehoshua took off his coat and sat down at the table. I opened the casserole dish. In the cookbook photo, a perfectly reddish-brown, crispy chicken had glistened atop a bowl of rice, garnished with scallions and sesame seeds. But in its real-life version, pale-yellow pieces of chicken floated in a sea of black liquid.

My eyebrows knitted together as I looked at the chicken. “Is it supposed to bubble like that?” I wondered out loud. “The author didn’t say anything about bubbling.”

“Looks good,” Yehoshua said, looking uneasily at the chicken. He forked a thigh bobbing around in Coca-Cola and chicken juice and placed it on his plate with some rice.

He took a bite of the chicken.

“Mmm. . .” he said, picking up his glass of water and taking a long swallow. “That’s really good.”

I tried a leg. It was a little too sweet, a little too soggy, a little overcooked, but not bad for a first attempt. The rice was paradoxically both burnt and undercooked because I hadn’t added enough water and burned it without fully cooking it.

“Thanks for making dinner,” Yehoshua said. “It’s amazing. Really.”

We sat over dinner and talked about our day. I couldn’t help but notice that Yehoshua drank a lot of water at the meal. “I had a late lunch,” he explained.

I knew I’d never measure up to my mother-in-law. She’s a gourmet cook. Shabbos dinner in her house consists of about 15 dishes — and each could be served in a five-star restaurant. Still, I was proud of my efforts. I had only really started cooking when I got married.

Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, I thought I heard the doorbell ring.

“Who’s that?” I called out to Yehoshua.

No answer.

I came out of the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. My husband was eating a chicken wrap.

He looked at me, eyes wide. “I hope you don’t mind. I just needed a little extra protein.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” I said coldly.  “Looks good.”

“Would you like half?” he asked, holding it up to me.

It did look inviting: all that grilled chicken, with lettuce and tomato in a whole wheat wrap.

“No,” I said, my stomach growling. “I already ate dinner.”

This was the first, but not the last time Yehoshua ordered out after I had already cooked dinner. When my pot roast was the consistency of shoe leather, when my chicken kabobs resembled charcoal on a stick, I’d hear the doorbell ring an hour or two after dinner and see the takeout wrappers in the garbage.

On multiple occasions, I gave him a piece of my mind. “You know, I work really hard on dinners. It hurts my feelings when you order takeout after.”

“Your dinners are delicious,” Yehoshua emphasized. “Sometimes, I just need a little extra protein.”

Okay, I’ll confess that sometimes, after he went to sleep, I’d eat his leftovers from the fridge. After all, it would be a shame to let them go to waste.

The dish we fought over the most was black bean burgers. I once ate a delicious black bean burger in a restaurant, and I wanted to recreate the dish. But no matter which recipe I tried, it always turned out dry, crumbly, and flavorless.

I was certain that one day I’d get it right, but after a number of failed attempts, Yehoshua was ready for me to quit my experimentation. It got to the point that if he said, “What are you making for dinner?” and I answered, “I’m making black bean burgers,” he’d ask me, “Is it all right with you if I order takeout?” before I started cooking. That really galled me. I mean, shouldn’t he at least try my dinner before ordering takeout? Maybe this time, it would be delicious.

Then: Another day, another black bean burger recipe. This one was bland and soggy. It was a slightly warmer version of eating black beans straight from the can. I looked over at my husband, enjoying the crispy-chicken sandwich that he’d had the foresight to order in advance.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any extra?” I asked sheepishly.

He had a twinkle in his eye as he reached into the takeout bag. “I thought you might say that, so I already ordered you one.”

My heart swelled with gratitude as I bit into that chicken sandwich. Maybe my husband didn’t love my cooking, but he loved me. And as I ate the sandwich, it occurred to me that I could be less rigid. I could focus on my husband’s many, many wonderful qualities instead of letting a little takeout stand in the way of my shalom bayis.

The years went on, my cooking improved. My husband doesn’t order takeout so often, and I never did make another black bean burger.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 925)