When my husband tossed a crumpled $50 bill on the counter and smugly told me to “make a lavish Christmas dinner” for his family, I knew I had two choices: crumble under the weight of his insult or turn the tables in a way he’d never forget. Guess which one I picked?

Every year, my husband Greg insists we host Christmas dinner for his family, which is fine except for the part where he treats it like some royal command rather than a joint effort.

This year, though, he outdid himself, reducing my work and care to a single dismissive gesture. At that point, I decided I wasn’t just going to cook.

This year, though, he outdid himself, reducing my work and care to a single dismissive gesture. At that point, I decided I wasn’t just going to cook.