My Entitled DIL Demanded a “Special” Thanksgiving Menu—I Agreed, Then Outplayed Her
When my daughter-in-law Kayla told me to make a more “elegant” Thanksgiving menu because my usual dishes were “too cheap,” I smiled and agreed. But behind that smile, I was already planning a dinner she’d regret requesting.
Kayla has always been polite on the surface—well-dressed, charming, and sweet-talking. But I’ve spent years enduring her subtle insults and passive-aggressive demands. My son, Arnold, is blind to it all. To him, she’s perfect.
I’ve kept the peace for his sake. But when Kayla called my food “basic” and sent me an outrageous list of high-end recipes—truffle oil, imported cheeses, all that nonsense—I decided it was time she got a taste of her own medicine.
She’d once called my cooking outdated. I let it go. Then she started treating me like her personal chef, sending recipes from fancy restaurants. I kept quiet, hoping Arnold would notice. He didn’t. He said she was just “bringing variety.”
The final straw came when she told me my dishes were “too cheap.” I told her I’d take care of Thanksgiving—and I did. Just not the way she expected.
Thanksgiving Day came, and the house smelled heavenly. Kayla and Arnold arrived late, as usual. She walked in with that smug smile, confident this was her moment to shine.
She didn’t know I’d tailored the menu just for her… with one very specific detail: nuts. Kayla isn’t allergic—but she absolutely hates nuts in her food.
The stuffing? Pecan-filled. Sweet potato casserole? Thick candied pecan crust. Green beans? Almonds. Even the mashed potatoes had hazelnuts sprinkled on top. And dessert? Pecan pie, macadamia cookies, and brownies packed with walnuts.
The rest of the family raved. Kayla sat in silence, picking at plain turkey and mashed potatoes. When dessert came, she didn’t touch a bite. Claimed she was “watching her calories.”
After dinner, she whispered something to Arnold. He came to me later, saying she suspected the nuts were intentional.
I played innocent. “But these were from her recipes,” I said, showing him the email she’d sent. “She wanted a fancy menu with no ‘cheap ingredients.’ I just followed her wishes.”
He looked confused. “She didn’t mention that.” He promised to talk to her.
By the end of the night, Kayla was unusually quiet. No sarcastic remarks. No fake praise. Just a stiff goodbye.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t scold. I simply served her the elegant meal she wanted—seasoned with a little well-earned humility.
And judging by her silence, she finally got the message: entitlement doesn’t belong at my table.
