When I cook for my wife’s family, I get endless, sincere praise. They tell me it’s the greatest soup they’ve ever had. They ask for recipes. The next day they sheepishly ask if they can eat the rest of the leftovers.

When I cook for my side of the family: nothing. Crickets. Which is even more odd to me since my mom never met a seasoning. Period. She does not season her cooking. One time she was tipping over a jar of Italian seasoning just to let it look at the meatballs, and she accidentally spilled some in, and everyone told her it was the best meatballs she ever made.

But I provide a flavorful, well-prepared soup, and at best I get: “Well it turns out I didn’t mind black beans this one time, but I still hate them.”