When my husband Adrian told me that his old childhood friend Lucia was coming to stay with us for a few weeks, I smiled and nodded.
“That sounds… lovely,” I said.
But inside, I wasn’t really thrilled. I didn’t know her well. She was just a name I’d heard in old stories. Adrian had mentioned her now and then, saying she had a “strong personality.”
I thought he meant she’d be energetic or a little dramatic. I had no idea what was really coming.
Lucia arrived pulling a big fancy suitcase behind her and wearing too much perfume—it filled the house before she even stepped inside. Her voice followed, loud and sharp.
“Is this what fall feels like here?” she said, walking in and sniffing the air. “It’s so mild. And what’s that smell? It’s… fishy, no?”
I blinked. I’d been cooking in the kitchen and thought maybe she was talking about the harbor nearby.
But no.
She pointed toward the stove and asked, “Is that from your food?”
I forced a smile. “It’s caramelized pork belly. I’m making dinner.”
She scrunched her nose. “It’s very strong, Tara. Do you always use such… pungent things?”
I laughed lightly, trying not to take offense. “It’s how I grew up cooking. Full of spice, layers of flavor.”
Lucia raised her eyebrows. “You should try real Italian food. You know, traditional stuff.”
That was just the beginning.
In the days that followed, Lucia turned every moment into a small war. She didn’t like any of the restaurants we took her to—whether it was Thai, fusion, or even a sushi place, everything was “not real food.”
She never shouted or insulted us outright, but she had this smug smile that made her critiques feel like little stabs.
The only place she liked even a little was an Italian restaurant that Adrian enjoyed. We ended up eating there three nights in a row. It didn’t feel like a choice—it felt like we were surrendering.
Even there, Lucia picked apart every dish. The cheese wasn’t sharp enough. The wine was “flat.” The pasta sauce? “Confused.”
One night, I ordered a cappuccino after dinner. Her eyes went wide.
“Tara! No! We don’t drink cappuccino after breakfast. It ruins your digestion,” she said, horrified.
“Well, I do,” I said, trying to laugh it off. “My stomach’s doing just fine.”
She didn’t laugh.
At the grocery store, she made things worse. She started giving me loud lessons on how to pronounce different pasta names, like she was teaching a child.
“It’s not pen-nay, it’s pehn-neh. Like this! Say it with me, Tara. You too, Adrian!”
I stood there holding a bottle of olive oil, jaw tight. “I’m not trying to be Italian, Lucia.”
She looked surprised, like that idea had never even crossed her mind.
It hit me then—this wasn’t just cultural pride. She was impossible.
After a week, I was falling apart. I barely smiled anymore. I held my breath around her. Adrian tried to stay neutral. At night, he would rub my back and whisper, “She’s just passionate.”
“She’s rude,” I mumbled into his shirt.
“She’s overwhelmed,” he said. “She’s never really traveled before.”
Maybe that was true. Maybe she was scared and clinging to what she knew. But knowing that didn’t make her easier to live with. Every comment from her was like another cut.
So I tried one more time.
“I want to cook dinner at home,” I told Adrian. “Something of mine.”
He nodded. He understood. I needed to feel like myself again, just for one evening.
I spent hours in the kitchen that day. I marinated pork belly with fish sauce and palm sugar, sliced garlic, prepared pickled vegetables, and steamed jasmine rice. The smells in the air brought me peace. They reminded me of home, of love, of who I was before Lucia arrived.
Right as I was setting the table, Lucia walked in.
She sniffed the air and made a face like she’d walked into a sewer.
“What is that smell?” she asked.
“Dinner,” I said flatly.
She walked over to the pot, opened the lid, sniffed, and stepped back like it was poison.
“You can’t expect Adrian to eat this, can you?”
I swallowed my frustration. “It’s one of his favorite meals.”
Lucia didn’t care. She raised her voice like she wanted the house to hear.
“This place always smells awful. You should cook real food. Traditional Italian. Not this… weird stuff. You need to get a real cookbook.”
I clenched my jaw. My hands were shaking.
Then she did the unthinkable.
She grabbed the pot, walked over to the trash can, and dumped the entire meal in.
I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“What the heck are you doing?” I finally yelled.
Lucia didn’t even flinch. “I’ll just have Adrian take me out for lasagna,” she said. “This isn’t real food. It’s embarrassing.”
I was shaking with rage, tears stinging my eyes. Before I could say anything, Adrian stepped in.
“Lucia,” he said sharply.
She turned, startled.
“That’s not okay,” he said firmly. “You’ve been rude since you got here. You’ve insulted Tara’s food, her culture, everything she does. Enough.”
She blinked. “Adrian… I didn’t mean it like that—”
“No,” he said. “If this is how you treat people when you travel, maybe you shouldn’t travel.”
Lucia’s mouth dropped open. “You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking my wife’s side. Always.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second. The way he said it—calm, strong, clear. Like he’d always known.
Lucia looked from him to me. For a moment, I thought she might apologize.
But no.
She grabbed her coat and keys, face full of fake dignity, and stormed out. The door slammed so hard it shook the picture frames.
I stood there in silence. I’d wanted her to say sorry. Even a small one. But she didn’t.
An hour later, Adrian got a message. She booked a hotel nearby for the rest of her stay.
No apology. Just logistics.
Somehow, that felt perfect.
Adrian walked to the trash can and looked at the mess.
“I’m so sorry,” he said softly.
“You stood up for me,” I said, still stunned.
“Of course I did, Tara. Why wouldn’t I?”
“You told her to leave…”
“She crossed a line. That was that.”
My heart felt full. Not from the mess, not from the fight—but from how clear he was about where he stood.
“You don’t know what that meant to me,” I whispered.
“I think I do,” he replied, reaching for my hand.
Later that night, I made a quick version of the pork belly again. Not as perfect, a little rushed. But it was ours.
We ate quietly under the soft kitchen light, holding hands across the table. No need for words. The food spoke for us.
The next morning, Adrian showed me an email confirmation. He’d signed us up for a Korean cooking class together.
“I thought it’d be fun,” he said. “And maybe you can add a new sauce or two to your magic. Plus… I want to learn how to cook.”
I laughed for real. He never cooked. Ever. But here he was, showing up where it mattered most.
That night in class, we stood side by side at a steel counter. We learned how to make gochujang-glazed chicken and soft tofu stew. Adrian whispered silly jokes in my ear. I leaned against his shoulder and smiled.
Food had always been our love language—not just the taste but the heart we poured into it.
Lucia didn’t understand that. She thought tradition was everything.
But Adrian and I, we’re still writing our own story—one dish at a time.
Now, it smells like garlic. It smells like love. And it smells exactly like home.
A few weeks later, I made that pork belly dish again—this time for our cooking class potluck. I brought it in a red casserole dish, hands trembling a bit.
Someone asked me for the recipe.
Adrian beamed.
I just smiled.
Because finally, I didn’t need to defend it anymore.
And I didn’t need to defend myself either.
