It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining, and the birds were singing. My date showed up with a lovely homemade lunch. Sandwiches, chips to nibble, sweet, crunchy apples and ice-cold drinks. It was the perfect day for a picnic in the park. We found an open table nearby where he neatly spread out the bounty he had prepared. I was impressed.
Then, I bit into my sandwich. It was egg salad. With onions. The only thing I hate more than egg salad is egg salad with onions. I looked dubiously at the sandwich but then looked up at my new love and smiled sweetly. I knew how hard he had worked to impress me and I didn’t want to offend him so I figured the best thing to do was be polite and eat the food he had prepared. I began chewing as quickly as I could, trying hard not to let the food stay in my mouth any longer than necessary. “Do you like egg salad?” said the love of my life. I smiled warmly, “Oh, yes, of course, I do. It’s one of my favorites!” I replied, possibly with a little too much enthusiasm. I contemplated my next bite, trying to assess if I might be able to forgo chewing and just swallow. Egg salad is soft enough, right? This was a mistake. A large gob of the salad lodged in my throat. I grabbed my drink and guzzled it as politely as I could. A shiver ran down my spine. “Are you sure it’s okay?” he asked with a look of concern. “Oh, yes,” I said with a wave of my hand, love-struck eyes beginning to water now, “I guess I’m just so hungry and this egg salad is so good.” I gave him my most winning smile. He bought it.
Somehow, I managed to feign my love of egg salad and make it through the lunch. A very small price to pay, I thought to myself. He was happy and I was happy to know, at least, that I would never have to eat egg salad again.
A few years later, however, we were married, and I came home one Saturday afternoon to find that lunch was made. My dear, sweet husband prepared sandwiches with crispy potato chips and sweet sliced apples. “I have lunch ready for us.” He said proudly when I walked in the door. “You are so sweet!” I said following him into the dining room. I sat down. I looked dubiously at the sandwich. “What did you make?” I inquired. “Egg salad.” He said with a broad smile. “Your favorite.”
“Since when is it my favorite?” I said with a frown.
“Since the day we went on a picnic and you gobbled it up as quickly as you could.”
The memory of that day flooded back to me. The wonderful date in the park. The singing birds. And, the sandwich. The awful egg salad that I ate with a smile. I had completely forgotten about my culinary deception that day.
“I hate to break this to you honey, but I hate egg salad,” I said not meeting his eyes. “I only ate it to be polite.”
We have been married for 28 years now and this story resurfaces often. Most especially, each time my husband makes egg salad. So, be wary when feigning love for something that you do not truly enjoy. You are likely to hear about it for years to come.
