A Storm of Spices and Strength
When Adrian told me his old friend Lucia was coming to stay with us for a few weeks, I forced a smile and said, “That sounds lovely.”
I didn’t mean it. Not really.
I barely knew her—just stories Adrian had shared. An old family friend from his childhood, someone with a “strong personality.” I imagined loud laughter, maybe dramatic hand gestures. What I got was something else entirely.
Lucia arrived with a suitcase and a cloud of perfume so thick it clung to the walls like a warning. Before she even stepped all the way inside, her voice filled our home.
“Is this really what autumn feels like here? Where I’m from, it’s much milder. And your air smells… strange. Fishy. Don’t you think?”
I thought she meant the harbor nearby, but no—Lucia was talking about the fish sauce in my kitchen. I had just started cooking dinner, the rich scent of caramelized pork belly filling the house.
“It’s from the dish I’m making,” I said, keeping my voice light.
“It’s… very sharp, Tara,” she replied, wrinkling her nose. “Do you always cook with such strong smells?”
“It’s how I grew up cooking. Bold flavors, lots of spice. Just good food!”
“Hm,” she said, walking past me. “You should try real Italian food sometime.”
And that was only the beginning.
A Week of Small Cuts
The next few days were a blur of backhanded compliments disguised as “cultural pride.” Every restaurant we took her to was wrong. The Thai bistro? “Fine, but not real food.” The sushi place? “Interesting, but not authentic.” The only place she didn’t completely tear apart was an Italian spot Adrian liked.
We ate there three nights in a row. It felt less like a choice and more like surrender.
Even there, she couldn’t help herself. She dissected every dish like a food critic on a mission. The pasta was “too soft.” The wine was “too thin.” The sauce? “Confused.”
I sat there, pushing limp noodles around my plate, wondering if every meal from now on would be like this—tense, judged, never good enough.
And when I dared to order a cappuccino after noon, she gasped like I’d committed a crime.
“Tara, no! We don’t drink cappuccino after breakfast. It ruins digestion.”
“Well, I do. And my stomach seems fine,” I said, trying to laugh it off.
She didn’t laugh.
At the grocery store, it got worse. She took it upon herself to teach me how to pronounce pasta names—loudly, like I was a child.
“It’s not ‘pen-nay,’ it’s ‘pehn-neh.’ Say it with me, Tara. You too, Adrian!”
I gripped a bottle of olive oil, my patience thinning.
“You do realize I’m not trying to be Italian, right?”
She blinked, as if the idea had never crossed her mind.
That’s when I realized—this wasn’t just pride. This was something darker.
The Breaking Point
After a week, I was barely holding on. Adrian tried to smooth things over, whispering reassurances at night.
“She’s just passionate,” he said one evening as I curled into him, exhausted.
“She’s rude,” I muttered into his sleeve.
“She doesn’t travel much. This might be overwhelming for her.”
Maybe. But understanding her didn’t make living with her any easier. Every comment felt like another cut, another way of telling me I wasn’t good enough.
So I decided to cook. Really cook. Not for her—for me.
I spent hours in the kitchen, slicing pork belly, crushing garlic, letting the scent of fish sauce and palm sugar fill the air. The sharp tang of lime, the heat of chili—it smelled like home. Like memory.
Lucia walked in just as I was setting the table. She froze, her nose wrinkling like she’d stepped into something rotten.
“What is that smell?” she demanded.
“Dinner,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
She marched to the stove, lifted the lid of the pot, and recoiled like she’d been burned.
“You can’t seriously expect Adrian to eat this?”
“It’s one of his favorite meals,” I said, already knowing it wouldn’t matter.
“Tara, I’ll be honest,” she said, raising her voice like she wanted the whole neighborhood to hear. “This house always smells terrible. It’s not good for him to eat like this. You should learn real cooking—Italian. Something traditional. Not… whatever this is.”
I didn’t answer. My hands were shaking.
Then—before I could stop her—she grabbed the pot, walked to the trash, and dumped the entire meal inside.
The clang of the lid against the metal bin echoed in the silence.
“What the hell are you doing?” My voice cracked.
“I’ll ask Adrian to take me out for lasagna,” she said, completely unbothered. “I can’t eat this. And honestly? You should stop learning recipes from the internet. It’s embarrassing.”
My entire body trembled. I wanted to scream.
But before I could, Adrian spoke.
“Lucia.” His voice was sharp.
She turned, surprised.
“That’s not okay.”
“Adrian, I didn’t mean—”
“No,” he cut her off. “You’ve been disrespectful since the moment you arrived. You’ve criticized everything—her food, her choices, her culture. Enough. If this is how you treat people when you travel, maybe you shouldn’t.”
His voice didn’t rise, but it was firm. Unshakable.
Lucia’s face twisted in disbelief. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking my wife’s side,” he said. “Always.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
She stared at him, then at me, as if waiting for me to apologize.
But I didn’t.
“You need to find a hotel,” Adrian said. “Tonight.”
“You’re kicking me out?” Her voice cracked.
“I’m asking you to respect boundaries. If you can’t, then yes.”
For a second, I thought she might finally apologize.
She didn’t.
She grabbed her coat, stormed out, and slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
The Aftermath
An hour later, Adrian got a text. She’d booked a hotel. No apology. Just logistics.
Somehow, that felt right.
Adrian stared at the ruined dinner in the trash, his jaw tight. “I’m so sorry.”
“You stood up for me,” I whispered.
“Of course I did,” he said, pulling me close. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Later, I remade dinner—simpler this time. Adrian poured wine, set the table, and held my hand as we ate in silence.
The next day, he surprised me with a Korean cooking class reservation. “Thought it might be fun,” he said. “And maybe I should learn a thing or two.”
I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in days.
That night, we stood side by side in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, tasting. He whispered jokes in my ear, and I leaned into him, breathing in the scent of garlic and peace.
Food had always been our love language.
Lucia thought tradition was the only story that mattered.
But Adrian and I?
We’re still writing ours.
One dish at a time.
