When my husband made fun of my cooking with a PowerPoint presentation in front of our family, I was embarrassed. But instead of getting angry, I planned my payback.
I had been married to Cal for almost five years, and we were usually happy. I loved cooking, and I thought I was decent at it.
I’d been the family chef for years, and anytime we hosted, I would spend hours preparing lasagna from scratch, perfectly marinated roasts, or fancy salads with homemade dressings. It was my thing, and I was proud of it.
Cal, on the other hand, could barely manage instant noodles.
His attempts at cooking were rare, and they usually ended with takeout or, on one unforgettable moment, a pot of burnt spaghetti because he forgot to add water. Despite his lack of skill, he had endless confidence about everything, cooking included.
Last Saturday, we had a family gathering at my mom’s house. As usual, I was in charge of the main meal.
I spent the day marinating the chicken, layering the lasagna, and tossing a big, colorful salad. By the time everyone gathered around the table, they couldn’t wait to dig in, and the compliments started flowing right away.
Then, just as everyone was starting to eat, I noticed Cal giving me an odd grin that I couldn’t figure out. I tried to shrug it off, thinking maybe he was remembering some inside joke. But then he cleared his throat and said, “You know, I’ve actually been keeping track of your cooking.”
I laughed, thinking he was joking. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
He went on, “I made a little presentation.” I thought he was kidding, but no. He pulled out his phone, connected it to my mom’s TV, and opened up an actual PowerPoint presentation titled “Improving Our Home Dining Experience.” The table went silent, and I sat there, shocked.
“Alright, everyone,” he began, acting like he was on stage. “Slide 1: Too Much Garlic.” He tapped the screen, and up came a photo of garlic bulbs with the note, “Strong flavors can overpower the palate.”
My face burned as he went on. “Cal, what is this?”
Ignoring me, he continued. “Slide 2: Pasta Too Al Dente. We all know pasta should be tender, not crunchy,” he said, glancing around as if he were waiting for everyone’s agreement.
My sister, Yara, let out an awkward laugh, and my dad, Xeno, coughed into his napkin. I was embarrassed but still too shocked to respond.
Then he showed “Slide 3: Not Enough Salt in the Salad,” explaining to everyone at the table how “a good cook knows salt brings out flavors.”
Finally, he wrapped up with a photo of Gordon Ramsay facepalming, captioned, “What he’d think.” He sat back with a smug grin, glancing around for applause.
The room was quiet. My mom, Tish, broke the silence with an awkward laugh. “Well, Cal, that’s… certainly creative,” she said, trying to ease the tension.
I sat through the rest of the meal quietly, too embarrassed to look up.
When we got home, I didn’t wait a moment before I turned to him. “Cal, what was that?” I asked.
“It was just a bit of fun, babe,” he replied with a shrug. “You take cooking seriously, so I thought you’d appreciate some feedback.”
“Feedback?” I shot back. “Cal, you embarrassed me in front of my family! How could you possibly think that was appropriate?”
“Relax,” he said, brushing it off. “You’re taking it too seriously. I was just trying to help.”
“Help?” I repeated, barely believing it. “Cal, you can’t even toast bread without setting off the smoke alarm. Who are you to critique my cooking?”
“It was just a joke,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re being way too sensitive.”
I stared at him for a moment, feeling the last of my patience break. “Fine. If you’re that much of a food critic, cook for yourself. I’m completely serious.”
He laughed like he didn’t believe me. “Oh, come on, you’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m completely serious, Cal,” I said, crossing my arms. And I meant every word.
After that embarrassing dinner, I had no plans to let Cal off easy. The more I replayed the scene in my mind, the more upset I got. But instead of yelling or sulking, I decided on something better. If Cal thought PowerPoint was the way to go, well, I’d give him a presentation of my own.
Over the next week, I put my heart into making “Improving Our Financial Experience.” It was tough not to giggle as I worked; my slides grew more sarcastic with every detail I added. This would be my perfect comeback, delivered with the same dramatic flair he’d used.
Slide 1 was titled “If We Could Afford a Vacation.” It opened with a gorgeous stock photo of a sunny beach, complete with palm trees and turquoise waves.
Underneath, I’d written, “If we had a little extra cash, maybe we could be here instead of at home this summer!” A few bar graphs followed, showing how our current income made a tropical vacation “out of reach for now.”
Slide 2 covered “Home Improvements: If Only We Could Budget for It.” A shiny, fully remodeled kitchen filled the slide, with shiny appliances and granite countertops.
Below, I added, “Imagine the potential if we had some extra funds!” Next, I displayed a cost analysis of his favorite weekly splurges (a truth wrapped in humor) and labeled it, “Potential Savings: Cooking at Home.”
Slide 3 had “Fine Dining (If We Didn’t Eat Out So Often),” complete with tasty-looking photos of elegant dishes from a nearby Michelin-starred restaurant.
I’d even put together a line chart comparing our monthly dining expenses to what we’d need to save for a special night at a place like that. A bit harsh, maybe, but I was having too much fun by this point to care.
Finally, I wrapped it up with “Goals for a Strong Financial Future.” For the closing slide, I added an inspiring quote from an entrepreneur about achieving one’s dreams.
Right below, I inserted a motivational poster of a man in a suit pointing to the words, “Hard Work Pays Off.” I figured it would hit just the right note of cheeky humor.
The timing couldn’t have been better. We had another family gathering coming up, and I knew exactly when to roll out my masterpiece.
On the day of the gathering, I kept a calm face through dinner, graciously taking compliments on my lasagna without bringing up the previous incident. Cal was all grins, seeming to believe the PowerPoint incident had already been forgotten. After dinner, while everyone was relaxing in the living room, I stood up.
“Hey, everyone,” I said, clearing my throat with a grin, “I actually have a little presentation I’d like to share.”
Cal looked at me, surprised. “Oh? What’s this about?”
“Oh, just a few notes I’ve been working on.” I grabbed the remote and connected my laptop to the TV. The screen lit up with the title, “Improving Our Financial Experience.”
A few of my family members chuckled, glancing at Cal. He looked nervous, glancing around as if he’d just caught on to my plan.
“Alright, Slide 1,” I said, clicking to a picture of the tropical beach.
Cal’s face went red as our relatives chuckled. My mom, Tish, shot me a curious smile, catching on to my plan.
“Slide 2: Home Improvements—If Only We Could Budget for It.” I clicked to the next slide, revealing the remodeled kitchen photo with its shiny appliances.
A few of my relatives laughed openly, and my dad, Xeno, nodded in agreement. Cal squirmed in his seat, looking more uncomfortable by the second.
“Slide 3,” I continued, “Fine Dining, and How Cutting Back Could Help Us.” At this point, Cal wished he could vanish, his face red and eyes darting around the room.
Finally, I reached the last slide. I smiled and concluded, “With a little focus and effort, we can accomplish anything, don’t you think?”
There was a moment of silence before my mom, Tish, broke into laughter, followed by everyone else. Cal chuckled nervously, trying to play along, though it was clear he wasn’t quite as amused as everyone else.
When we got home that night, Cal closed the door and let out a long sigh. “Alright, point taken,” he said, hands raised. “I guess I earned it.”
“More than earned it,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before you try to ‘critique’ my cooking in front of everyone.”
He nodded, his expression softening. “You’re right. I was out of place. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just… thought it was a joke.”
“Well, now you know how it feels,” I replied, though I eased my voice, relieved he seemed to understand.
Cal gave a shy grin. “So… does this mean you’ll cook again?”
I shook my head, but I couldn’t help smiling. “Maybe,” I said, “but only if you promise to leave the ‘feedback’ out of it.”
“Deal,” he said, chuckling. “From now on, you’re the chef.”
And with that, our “PowerPoint wars” were officially over.
