“Who does the cooking in your home?” I'm often asked by my colleagues. “My wife and I share it 50/50,” I usually say without hesitation.

    It's a lie, of course. We're pretty much even（相等的）when it comes to the children and the elderly. But the paying of bills isn't 50/50-my wife pays all sorts of household expenses, so I never even have to set eyes on them. And the cooking isn't 50/50, either.

    The truth is that I am the cook. On my recent 40th birthday, I received the following gifts from my children: a new pot, two mini bottles of truffle oil, a decorative salad-dressing pourer, and a juice-making machine. For a moment I longed for something more manly, a cricket bat, perhaps, and then had to admit that all these things would be useful for me.

    It's not that my wife can't or doesn't like to cook (she makes delicious Welsh cakes). Nor has it always been this way. In the early years of our marriage I'd be relaxing with a glass of wine while my wife prepared for dinner after work.

    But at some point that changed and I became the cook. Ten years with my wife gave me the rewards-I can throw together a roast, and I can make much foreign food. But I have truly become a monster(怪物) in the kitchen, unable to keep myself away from cooking. “You have to add Dijon to the sauce; it brings out the taste of the cheese,” I volunteer, as my wife is cooking. “Quick, stir in the butter so the dish becomes delicious.”

    Is it any wonder that my wife has given up coming into the kitchen while I find the whole process of chopping, mixing, and adding things deeply satisfying?