The first sight of my future boyfriend was promising: A towering tree trunk of a man wearing an apron over an Oxford shirt stood in the kitchen of a beach house rented for my cousin’s wedding. He sliced zucchini with enticing precision. Within 24 hours, I found myself making googly eyes at him (Okay, furtive glances) over lobster rolls at the morning-after brunch.
An architect from Holland living in NYC, he was delightfully nerdy and weird in all the right ways. I liked how social and comfortable he was at dinner parties, yet also at ease with quiet.
And, oh, he could cook.
Fewer than three years and thousands of JetBlue miles later, I quit my food writing job at a Southwest Florida newspaper, and we bought a co-op apartment together in Brooklyn. We loved our quiet neighborhood and immediately began cooking together more than we were eating out, not a typical trait for 30-somethings in these parts.
Like many couples, however, what united us also separated us.
A couple years before meeting him, I had overhauled my lifestyle and lost 100 pounds, dropping my blood pressure to the doctor’s satisfaction. Gone from my fridge were the bags of processed, shredded cheese blends. No longer was my freezer filled with pizza rolls and boxed lasagna. My trash stopped seeing crumpled evidence of Taco Bell chalupas and empty hot sauce packets, torn open by teeth.
When I met this guy, I was deep into a hyper-health-conscious lifestyle full of fruits and vegetables, whole grains only, and scant dairy—low-fat or fat-free if at all. My proteins were chicken, turkey, seafood, tofu, nuts, and chickpeas. I needed a leafy green at least once a day, if not more. I tossed fruit into every dish I could. Summer is, after all, nine months of the year down there.
This Dutch dude, however, concocted heavy, cold-weather cuisine like it was a snow day year round. Potatoes were a food group in his world. He favored stews, roasted pork and beef, smoked and cured sausages, patés, crusty white breads, fancy cheeses, butter, and cream. His slow-cooked meat fell off the bone, and his braises melted in your mouth.
When we moved in together, these dreamy ingredients were at my fingertips. It was a nightmare.
Late at night, I would open the fridge, pull out the cheese drawer, and gaze with longing at the waxy wedge of aged Gouda and the $24 chunk of crumbly Parmesan. I would wail at him that he bought too much delicious cheese, and I had no self control.
It was harder for me, I told him. Unlike him, I worked from home often. No one saw what I ate besides our orange tabby cat (appropriately named Cheddar). Before this relationship, I was able to be relatively disciplined about my diet simply because I’d created a world in which temptations weren’t within arm’s reach.
He scoffed at any low-fat or reduced-sugar version of a product that I brought into the apartment. At the sight of my green plastic bottle of low-fat, powdery Kraft “Parmesan,” he ridiculed the American penchant for convenience over quality. I balked at eating the grilled cheese sandwiches he called "toasties," which he favored on weeknights when we were too tired to cook something more complicated. But my willpower was only so strong as I watched him slice the Gouda. I savored the way this nutty, caramel-tinged Dutch cheese oozed between the buttery, pan-toasted slices of bread.
It was a constant assault of delicious food, and I surrendered more and more.
Gradually, we began to learn the reasons behind each other’s preferences. When we shopped at the farmers’ market, he’d see my hands wander to the darker, seeded, whole-grain loaves rather than the slender, white French bread, and he’d give in to my desire. I appreciated that he didn’t bring snacks, prepared food, or frozen food into our home. Nothing he bought was easy to grab and devour in minutes.
And, because his cheese purchases were so fine, I didn’t want to waste them on a late-night binge. These top-quality ingredients deserved respect.
Of course, like for most relationship issues, the answer is compromise. My non-dairy and his whole milk have become 2 percent. With those toasties, I add a side salad, and the bread is always 100-percent whole grain, with no preservatives (sometimes it’s even sprouted).
He eats my mango fish tacos with avocado and lime-yogurt créma and my tofu vegetable curries over red quinoa; I savor his slow-roasted, shredded pork butt on brioche and his bone broth soba noodle soups with hard-boiled eggs.
Since we joined forces, the cupboard’s pastas are no longer white, except for our risotto rice: There’s no getting around that. Bags of teff, freekeh, millet, spelt, and bulgur share space on the carb shelf.
You know how you’re not supposed to keep score in a relationship? Whatever. It’s a tie anyway. In our kitchen, the soy sauce is the reduced-sodium kind: 2 points for me. The butter is unadulterated: 2 points for him. The Greek yogurt is the lower-fat version: A compromise.
These last few years of cohabitation have added a few pounds to my frame, but living with him—and those $24 cheeses—is worth it.