Reposted from my old blog

The biggest long-standing point of contention in our home is:

The Onion.

Hubs has been known to study packages of food (what, you thought I morphed into a homemaking dervish each night in the kitchen? that my hands prepare only food still in its natural shape or form? ha.) just to ensure that a fiendish Paul Newman didn’t slip a bit of onion powder into the spaghetti sauce.

Our biggest argument ever — and I mean I was ready to pack the man off to a hotel after holding him down and blowing my onion breath into each of his nostrils —- was over chicken spaghetti and whether “his side” of the casserole dish contained onions.

It’s frustrating enough to listen to your preschooler whine about how one food item is touching another. When your husband chimes in, well, that’s when you start fantasizing about spiking casseroles on a regular basis.

I have discovered one advantage in his loathing, however.

If I’m not in the mood for *ahem* marital relations, I just gnaw on some scallions and when we retire for the night, he rolls over with nary a hand on my thigh. (I’d say the effect is comparable to what happens when you start assembling your breast pump just as a pesky editor approaches your desk. Wanna see a man run like hell? Just haul out the plastic cones, baby.)

So with Hubs, I don’t plead a headache. I just whip out the cutting board, brandish a knife and let the onion fumes do the repelling.

It’s a beautiful arrangement, really. I’m not rejecting him. No, he’s rejecting me.

Brilliant!

Still, the man loves me. How do I know?

When we went to Washington, D.C. a few years back, he agreed to try a restaurant recommended by our editor.

Its name?

Vidalia.