“I’ll have the burger,” my husband said to the server when she came to take our lunch order.

“Would you like a salad or fries with that?” she asked.

“Salad,” he said definitively.

“No, fries,” I corrected him.

“I don’t want fries,” he said.

“But I do, and my sandwich doesn’t come with them,” I explained.

He rolled his eyes and shrugged in defeat.

“Fries,” he said to the server, who had been watching our exchange with interest. I was pretty sure it wasn’t the first time she’d heard this conversation between a husband and a wife. In the married world it is common knowledge that my fries are my fries, and his fries are also my fries. This same idea also applies to desserts, chips and basically any other food item that he might order that I would want. Sadly, for him, this policy does not work in reverse, and while I might deign to give him a fry or two, he couldn’t expect that I would fully share my fries (or flourless chocolate cake) unless there was some left after I was done eating — a highly unusual circumstance, to say the least.

I have to say, he’s been a pretty good sport about this, considering there was very little evidence that this would be his food future when we were dating. Back then, I respected his side dishes and desserts and only would partake of them when they were offered. The longer we were together, though, the braver I got, starting with just one or two fries and working my way up to half his portion and then some. By the time we’d been together 20 years, it was clear that when it came to eating out, I was ordering what I wanted to eat, and he was expected to order what I wanted to eat as well.

Desserts actually worked a little differently. I don’t usually order a dessert because I’m almost always on a diet. He usually orders dessert because he wants one and knows I really want one too, but I don’t want to go on the record as having ordered one. So he will get a dessert he knows I want and ask the server for two forks. My theory is, the calories don’t count if they are coming from someone else’s plate.

Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, our food arrived, and I was excited to see that he had received a hearty portion of fries with his burger. I dug right in, and he watched with his usual combination of irritation and amusement. He moved his burger over to one side of his plate and the fries to the other to give me easier access. Then he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he got back, he noticed that half the portion of fries were still on his plate.

“Thank you, honey,” he said with a smile. “I appreciate that you left me some fries!”

I nodded.

“I would have eaten more, but you ran out of ketchup.”