How sad (in a pitiful and gross way, not a "Aw, I'm sad for her," way) that her happy relationship memories are about her and her husband stuffing choux pastry and custard down their throats with their bare hands. When I think of some of the fun things my hubby and I have done together over the years, it's stuff like the water fight we had in the front yard when we were newlyweds, where we got so soaking wet we stripped naked on the back porch after and ran into the house hoping the neighbors didn't see us (but not worrying too much if they had caught a glimpse, because young, sexy newlyweds). Or sneaking out to our neighborhood pool in the middle of the night for a whisper-filled swim. Or any number of giggly late-night adventures (we both worked nights so on our days off we were still up all night; I don't just mean those sorts of late-night adventures--although, yeah, sex makes up more than a few of those memories, lol). Road trips. Walking on the beach at sunset. Trying to put together furniture or put up the hurricane shutters for the first time. Jokes we played on each other. I mean, I could go on forever with this, but the point is, pretty much none of my biggest memories, or most special memories, of my early days with my husband have to do with stuffing ourselves, silverware-free, with desserts in the car like people who stole a ham and are afraid of getting caught. Our life didn't and doesn't revolve around food; we had and have plenty more in common than that, which I think is fattypat's problem. Her only requirement in a man was "fat, loves food," and now she's realized that without fat and food she and her husband have nothing in common.