My husband, when hungry,

is like a Sinetron villain who just found out the baby isn’t his. Everything becomes a personal attack: the way I breathe, the volume of the rice cooker beep, the fact that the fridge exists. He walks around the house with the energy of a man wronged by fate and betrayed by fried chicken that hasn’t arrived. You’d think I stole his inheritance when all I did was ask, “Are you okay?”

Then the plot twist comes—like every good Indonesian drama—at the Padang resto. Suddenly, he wants everything. Gulai Kepala Ikan? Absolutely freaking yes, with capital. Dendeng basah? Why not. Peyek udang, two kinds. It’s like his inner child granted an access for adult money. And if we go shopping before he eats? God help our budget. I blink once and he’s already holding three Chikis & Nabati oreo like cookies and telling me it’s "urgent."

But as soon as food hits his digestion system, he transforms. The demon exits the chat. Suddenly, he’s calm, affectionate, borderline apologetic. Between spoonfuls of rice, he glances at me and says, “I’m sorry babe for being a bitch, I was hungry... but you know I love you, right?” Oh, now we’re Shakespeare in love. Five minutes ago, you were a war general declaring battle over what should we have to eat. The moral of the story? Never argue with a man whose mood is being dictated by his digestive system, and a short fuse one.