My wife has to be the worst cook. In my house, we pray after we eat

My wife has to be the worst cook. In my house, we pray after we eat

My wife has to be the worst cook. In my house, we pray after we eat. That's right, folks, I get no respect when it comes to mealtime. I swear, every time my wife steps foot in the kitchen, it's like a disaster waiting to happen. I mean, I've seen better meals come out of a vending machine.

I remember one time she tried to make spaghetti and meatballs. Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. The spaghetti was overcooked and mushy, the meatballs were burnt to a crisp, and the sauce tasted like it came straight out of a can. I took one bite and nearly choked. I had to excuse myself to the bathroom just to spit it out. And let me tell you, that was the first time I ever prayed after a meal.

But it's not just the taste that's the problem. It's the presentation too. I swear, my wife could make a gourmet meal look like something the cat dragged in. I remember one time she tried to make a fancy salad for a dinner party we were hosting. She piled on so many ingredients that it looked like a mountain of greens. And don't even get me started on the dressing. It was so thick and gloopy that it looked like something you'd use to patch up a leaky roof.

But you know what? Despite all her culinary mishaps, I still love my wife. She may not be the best cook in the world, but she's got a heart of gold. And hey, at least she tries. So every time we sit down to one of her meals, I bow my head and say a little prayer. Not just for the food, but for the woman who made it with love. Because at the end of the day, that's all that really matters.