I’m 33F, originally from France, and two years ago, I married the love of my life, Mark. After the wedding, I moved to my husband’s country—a place where hospitality is huge, but portion sizes are massive and everything is deep-fried.
I knew there would be cultural differences, but I honestly didn’t expect food to become the horror of my life. Back home, meals are about fresh ingredients, balance, and savoring the taste of the produce. Here, the local traditional cuisine is extremely heavy for me. It feels like every vegetable is boiled to death and covered in cheese sauce, and every meat is breaded and fried. I’m not judging it, I just physically can’t handle the amount of grease and frying that’s considered normal.
After a few miserable weeks of stomach issues and feeling constantly lethargic, I went back to what I know: simple meals from scratch. My dad’s a chef, so he sent me recipes that I grew up eating. I started making ratatouille, grilled fish with herbs, and lentil salads. Nothing fancy, just regular healthy food. Mark actually loved it; he said he had more energy and wasn’t falling into a “food coma” after every dinner.
Then, the nightmare began. My MIL lives with us temporarily (long story, but she’s staying five more months). She is a traditional woman who believes that if a man isn’t sweating meat sweats after dinner, he hasn’t eaten.
From day one, she’s been openly unimpressed. She would hover over me in the kitchen, making faces at my olive oil and fresh herbs. The first time she saw my homemade lunches, she literally rolled her eyes and asked, “You eat this nonsense? Is it even food for a grown man? You’re going to starve my son to death with this rabbit food!”
I tried to be polite. “Mark likes it, Brenda. And it makes me feel better.”
She scoffed. “He likes it because he’s being polite. He needs sustenance.”
For weeks, she made passive-aggressive comments. She’d bring home buckets of fried chicken “just in case Mark is still hungry.” But then, things got weird.
I started getting sick again. Severe cramping, nausea—the same symptoms I had when I first moved here. I couldn’t understand it because I was strictly cooking my clean recipes. I thought maybe I had developed a new allergy.
One Tuesday, I came home early from work. I walked quietly into the kitchen to start prep for a vegetable soup. I stopped in the doorway when I saw Brenda standing over the stove. My soup pot was already simmering—I had started it in the slow cooker that morning.
In her hand was a giant jar of saved bacon grease and lard. I watched in horror as she scooped three massive tablespoons of the white, congealed fat and plopped them directly into my vegetable broth. She stirred it in vigorously, muttering, “Finally, some flavor.”
I stepped into the room. “What are you doing?”
She jumped, nearly dropping the spoon. “Oh! You’re home early.”
“Did you just put lard in my soup?” I asked, my voice trembling with rage. “You know that makes me sick. You know I can’t digest that!”
She crossed her arms, defiant. “I’m fixing it! It tastes like dishwater. My son works hard; he needs calories, not this watery garbage. I’ve been helping you out for weeks, and you didn’t even notice!”
“Helping me out?” I shouted. “You’ve been poisoning me! That’s why I’ve been sick for the last month!”
Mark walked in right then, having heard the shouting. When I explained what she had been doing—spiking my healthy food with animal fat behind my back because she decided she knew better—he turned purple.
“Mom,” he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You’re making my wife sick on purpose? After she told you how much pain that food causes her?”
“I was trying to make sure you were fed properly!” she wailed.
Mark didn’t budge. “Pack your bags. You’re going to Aunt Sarah’s. Tonight.”
“But I have five months left!”
“Not here, you don’t.”
She left that evening, sobbing about how ungrateful we were. Since she left, my stomach issues have vanished completely. And honestly? The air in the house feels lighter—and so does the food.
