Most nights, I cook delicious and nutritious meals for my family. I usually use fresh, organic produce. I make sure everyone has some protein and some vegetables and some starch. You know, a balanced diet for optimal health.

Believe me, I'm happy to do this, despite the considerable effort it requires. Because I love to enhance the quality of life of those most precious to me.

Tonight though, I was cleaning out the crisper. I decided to try throwing some two-week-old fennel on the grill pan with the main-dish salmon.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it ended up not tasting so great. I think mostly because the fennel was pretty old and because I didn't cook it long enough. Anyway, I advised Dan to leave it on his plate. He tried eating it anyway, and ended up exclaiming at its awfulness and spitting out the bite he'd taken.

"I told you not to eat it," I said, simply.

"Yeah," he said. "I think that was the worst thing I've ever tasted."

"Well," I allowed. "Just don't eat it."

"I guess I really don't like fennel," Dan replied, shaking his head.

"I think you probably DO like fennel," I said. "It's just that you probably like it fresh and crispy and not rotting."

He got up to get himself a fresh glass of water and said, and here's the real foul of the evening, I think you'll agree:

"That might be true, BUT I don't want you to take this as a metaphor for our marriage."

And I think he kept going, but I stopped listening right there. Because O.M.G.

He has likened me to old, flaccid, rotting fennel, ladies and gentlemen.

ROTTING!!

Some seven-year itch!