How to Kill Your Terrible Husband (A Starter Guide)

Recipe #1

This may contain: a woman holding up her hands with the words don't leave fingerprints

Difficulty Level: Moderately Easy
Prep Time: The length of your marriage thus far
Cook Time: Varies by method and enthusiasm
Serves: You, finally
Pairing Suggestion: A crisp Chardonnay, served chilled, in a glass you don't have to wash for someone else

A Note from the Kitchen of Our Authoress

Darling,

Before we begin, let us acknowledge the obvious: you did not arrive at this recipe by accident. No woman wakes up on her wedding day, veil pinned and bouquet trembling, thinking, I shall one day need to braise this man with rosemary and spite. The road to this kitchen is paved with unwashed coffee mugs left on windowsills, with birthday cards signed only in his mother's handwriting, with the phrase "you're overreacting" delivered at precisely the moment you are reacting the exact appropriate amount.

You have been patient. You have been kind. You have suggested, gently and then less gently, that a marriage is a partnership and not a housekeeping internship with emotional labor benefits. You have communicated. You have compromised. You have attended his work functions and laughed at his colleague Gary's jokes, which is frankly above and beyond.

And still. Still.

He leaves his socks inside out in the laundry basket. He says "my money" when discussing the bank account but "our mess" when company is coming. He once described your career as "cute." He has never, not once, in seven years of cohabitation, located the hamper. It is a large wicker object. It does not move. It lives in the corner of the bedroom like a patient, hollow-hearted beast waiting to be fed, and yet his trousers consistently expire on the floor beside it, gasping their last synthetic breaths.

So here you are. Recipe page one. Welcome. You have made the correct choice, and I am proud of you. This is the only emotionally intelligent option left. Divorce is expensive, and murder, when executed with the precision we shall cultivate in this collection, is merely a form of homesteading.

Now. Wash your hands. Sharp knife. Let's begin.

Ingredients

1 Terrible Husband, approximately 180–220 lbs, pasture-raised on cable news and unexamined privilege
"Selecting your husband is the most critical step. If yours is merely mediocre, flip ahead to Recipe #23: The 5-Layer Breakup Lasagna. This recipe is reserved for the truly terrible. Characteristics include but are not limited to: emotional unavailability, learned helplessness, weaponized incompetence, gaslighting with a chipper tone, and the phrase "but you do it better than me."
2 cups of Patience, finely aged and now fully expired
Do not substitute with hope. Hope has no place in this kitchen. It will only make the dish cloying and you will hate yourself in the morning.
1 gallon of Meticulous Planning, preferably organic and locally sourced from your own late-night journaling sessions
3 tablespoons of Plausible Deniability, sifted
Available at any grocery store if you know where to look. Check the aisle next to "He Was Such a Quiet Neighbor" and "Officer, I'm as Shocked as You Are."
A pinch of Fear, purely for flavor
Fear sharpens the senses. Do not omit. You are not a sociopath; you are a woman with a project. Feel your feelings. Then set them aside to cool on a wire rack.
The Good Olive Oil
You know the one. He uses it to fry eggs because he "didn't see" the vegetable oil. Use the rest of the bottle. It deserves to die with dignity.
Fresh herbs for seasoning: rosemary (for remembrance of every time he forgot), thyme (because it's about damn time), and sage (for the wisdom you have earned)
A cast-iron skillet, heavy-bottomed, capable of withstanding high heat and blunt trauma if necessary
Le Creuset is ideal but Lodge will do. Do not use nonstick. Nonstick is for people who have never needed to scrub evidence from a pan, and you are no longer those people.

Necessary Equipment

A reliable kitchen timer (or an unreliable one, depending on your alibi strategy)
Latex gloves, unopened, purchased with cash from a drugstore three towns over
A smile that does not reach your eyes, practiced in the bathroom mirror until it looks natural
A sympathetic girlfriend who asks no questions but will confirm you were at brunch
A shovel is not strictly necessary but we will discuss landscaping in a later chapter

Method

Step 1: Mise en Place, or, Get Your Affairs in Order

Before you touch a single ingredient, prepare your station. In French cooking, mise en place means "everything in its place." In our kitchen, it means: passwords gathered, life insurance policy confirmed, joint accounts quietly monitored, and a timeline so unassailable that even his mother—especially his mother—will weep at the funeral and call you "the best thing that ever happened to her son."

You have been handling the logistics of this household for years. This is no different. You organized his dental appointments. You remembered his nephew's birthday. You are a project manager of the highest caliber. Murder is simply the final deliverable.

Take inventory of your pantry. What tools do you already possess? A slow cooker suggests patience and a hands-off approach. A pressure cooker suggests urgency and a believable kitchen accident. A dehydrator? Unconventional but promising. We will cover dehydration in Recipe #7: Dismembering Your First Victim. For now, simply know what you have. A woman who knows her kitchen knows herself.

Step 2: Prepare Your Husband

A terrible husband is best prepared by changing nothing about your behavior. This is the simplest step and yet the one most wives fumble. They become suddenly kind. They ask too many questions. They start cooking elaborate meals and the husband, dim as he is, senses atmospheric pressure shifting. He feels the weather changing in his own living room.

Do not alert the weather.

Continue exactly as you have been. If you normally sigh when he leaves dishes in the sink, sigh. If you normally say nothing, say nothing. Your consistency is your camouflage. Any deviation—a new perfume, a sudden interest in true crime podcasts, the suspicious purchase of a chest freezer—becomes a breadcrumb. Do not leave a trail of breadcrumbs unless you are trying to lure a witch, and you are the witch, darling. You already know the way home.

Step 3: Choose Your Method

Here we must discuss the philosophy of the dish. A terrible husband can be killed in infinite ways, but the successful housewife selects a method that complements her lifestyle. Are you an outdoorsy couple who hikes remote trails? The wilderness is notoriously indifferent to clumsy footing. Do you live in a drafty old house with questionable wiring? Electrical fires are tragic and surprisingly democratic. Does he have a severe peanut allergy? You didn't know the pad thai was made with peanut oil. You've eaten there for years. You're devastated. The restaurant will receive a one-star review and a lawsuit, both sincere.

For the beginner, I recommend the Long Game: a gradual approach that looks indistinguishable from natural causes or, better yet, his own bad habits. Men of a certain disposition eat themselves into early graves with no assistance whatsoever. Your job is merely to facilitate. Butter in everything. Heavy cream. A second helping pushed gently across the table. "You work so hard, honey. You deserve it." Let him dig his own grave with a dessert spoon. The coroner will write "cardiac event" and you will wear black and accept casseroles and not a single soul will suspect the cream sauce.

If the Long Game is too gentle for your timeline, we will discuss more direct methodologies in subsequent recipes. This is a Starter Guide. We are building skills. Do not reach for the arsenic before you have mastered the patience. Arsenic is for intermediate wives.

Step 4: The Execution

Whatever method you have chosen, today is the day. You wake at your normal hour. You make coffee for two out of habit, though you only drink one. You watch him consume his breakfast—the last breakfast, the thought tiptoes through your mind and you let it—and you note, with a clarity that surprises you, how little you feel.

This is not the numb emptiness of depression. This is the exhale after holding your breath for a decade. Your body knows what is coming and has decided, finally, to relax.

Carry out your method with the focus of a chef plating a Michelin-starred dish. Every movement intentional. No wasted energy. You are not angry. Anger is sloppy. You are an instrument of domestic rebalancing, and the universe sends its approval through the fluorescent kitchen light.

Step 5: The Immediate Aftermath

Call the appropriate authorities. Your voice will shake. This is good. A woman whose husband has just died unexpectedly should be shaken. If you cannot summon real tears, bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to blur your vision. Do not over-perform. The police have seen theatre and they have seen grief, and you are not Meryl Streep.

Answer their questions directly. Do not offer information they have not requested. "Yes, officer. No, officer. I don't understand how this could have happened." The last part is true. You don't understand how it took you so long.

Step 6: The Long Simmer

In the weeks that follow, you will learn that grief and relief wear the same face. Mourners will press your hand. His mother will wail. You will arrange flowers and pick a casket and write an obituary that somehow makes him sound employable. You will do all of this while a small, private sun rises in the center of your chest.

One morning, about three months after the funeral, you will wake up and realize you slept through the night. The bed will feel enormous and entirely yours. You will walk to the kitchen, pour a single cup of coffee, and stand in the silence. No sports radio. No complaints. No socks on the floor.

You will take a sip. It will be the best coffee you have ever tasted.

Serving Suggestion

Serve your newly single life with the good china and a side of unbothered radiance. Garnish with a new hobby—pottery, perhaps, or a book club—that explains your glow. Never speak of this recipe to anyone, except perhaps a fictionalized version of events sold as a satirical book to a publisher with an excellent sense of humor.

Cook's Notes