As a professional and self-proclaimed foodie it is a given that I spend my waking life dreaming about food.

So it was quite a shock that I married a man who didn't share my obsession. A man who wouldn't drive five hours for dinner, say, and order too many dishes just so we could try them, and then go to a second restaurant for another meal, since we're in the neighborhood! Oh well, nobody's perfect.

In my working life, I'm surrounded by all sorts of food people: people who cook, people who talk about food and cooking, and in the very least, people who talk about what they ate at that recently opened, super trendy restaurant. You could say I take food talk for granted.

Then I met Howie.

And his family.

And suddenly I was yanked into an alternative existence of food phobias and neuroses. It wasn't pretty. But it did give me a glimpse into his past, and the inherent obstacles he needs to overcome on this gastronomic journey as asap's Kitchen Idiot.

In writing this I realize just how far he's progressed. Like the dill incident, but we'll get to that.

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My first impression of Howie's kitchen — before I moved in and took over — was that it looked like an extension of his desk. Hidden somewhere behind the mess of magazine and papers, I found some stale garlic powder, an expired can of Manhattan clam chowder, the odd collection of utensils.

Now he's asking me if we have cheesecloth and where I store the mandolin.

Don't get me wrong. This Kitchen Idiot is still far from being an expert. Most days, he gets in my way because he's too slow, hesitant, awkward with a knife, and occasionally confounded by a recipe instruction.

But his enthusiasm is endearing and his burgeoning interest inspires me to rethink my own relationship with food.

I wasn't prepared for the many questions Howie would throw at me, but it feels good to dust off the cobwebs and even learn a thing or two.

It's thrilling beyond measure to talk food with Howie: About the alchemy of cooking and the transformation of ingredients, about the plain yumminess of it all. There's something magical that happens at the table when people come together to break bread. Even more so if that feast is homemade.

To share that with someone you love is the greatest feeling of all.

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But no amount of pride prepared me for the dill incident.

Since the day I met Howie, there were four ingredients strictly forbidden from his plate and preferably from our home. Set in stone, I can recite them at the drop of a hat: eggs, canned tuna, beets and dill.

I had resigned myself to the fact that no matter how many discoveries he made, these four subjects are taboo.

Well, the world must have come to an end because the unthinkable happened: Howie started eating dill on our trip to Poland. I think he couldn't escape it. But I think he actually liked it.

Now I don't even know what to think anymore. If he started speaking Chinese, I wouldn't blink.

What's important to note is that people can change. Or rather, food can change people.

Howie's interest in cooking has turned into a bona fide passion. His curiosity is spilling over into subjects I haven't tackled. He's making flavored vodka. He's reading about fresh pastas in Italy. He's shopping at the farmer's market.

Wait a minute — is this household big enough for the both of us?

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asap contributor Izabela Wojcik, aka Mrs. Kitchen Idiot, works for the James Beard Foundation.

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Previously from the Kitchen Idiot:

The dill incident: http://asap.ap.org/stories/895638.s

Polish vodka infusions: http://asap.ap.org/stories/858764.s

Peach cobbler: http://asap.ap.org/stories/811060.s

Mmmm, pork: http://asap.ap.org/stories/780114.s

Homemade granitas: http://asap.ap.org/stories/748930.s

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