I know who cooks in your house.
You do? Who does? I didn’t know it was a deep dark secret!
Your husband cooks.
Yeah, sometimes he does. And sometimes…
I know he does.
So who cooks in your house?
I do, of course.
Always? All of it?
Oh. That must be so hard on you.
Oh, but it must be horrible doing something you hate that much!
No… I don’t hate cooking…
You don’t? You like it?
Sometimes. Though it’s a pain to cook every day. And I don’t trust my husband to cook.
You don’t feel mean depriving your husband of the pleasure?
Oh, men don’t cook. Normally…
(drawing away from the food on the table) Oh… I cook with my… hands.
Note: this is fiction, though I wish it wasn't. The first Dialogue is here. I tried to do it without any description/explanation, but I felt the words in parentheses in the last line were necessary.