Quitting Smoking

"I'm Quitting!" he announced triumphantly at the VA cessation class. 
Cheers from the audience. "I've got it all figured out."

I was overjoyed. What a relief to not smell smoke on our clothes, in the house, vehicles and on his breath.

Highlights of his experiment:

I cooked liver and onions, rice and gravy.
"You cooked too many onions."

"The chocolate milk doesn't taste as good as the other brand."

"Are you taking your meds?"
"These sweet potatoes need more juice."

"When you make tea, shake it up!

"These blueberry muffins aren't as good as the other store's."

"These peaches don't taste as good as the first ones."
Grrr! I'm married to a food critic!!! It was the fourth can. Which one was first? 

"Hospital food doesn't taste good."
"Of course not. They don't want you to stay."
A fish-eyed scowl.

"Shouldn't the meatloaf have ketchup on it?"
Apparently, every woman in the world got the perfect meatloaf recipe except me. Where was I that day?

Lentil soup with fresh veggies: "I'm not eating anymore of your psychedelic vegetables! What's the matter with purple hulled peas? Don't you want to learn to cook them? It can't be that hard." 

After the 6th month, he went back to smoking a pack a day. The food critic is gone. I suspect he can't taste anything again, but I'm not complaining.


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