How is it that the simple question, once filled with possibilities that used to conjure fond images of favoured restaurants or the pride in serving a pleasant meal, can turn into a dreaded demand? Three little words are now on par with fingernails being dragged down a chalkboard. Not those three little words ;o)
Nope, I'm talking about the question fired at me with mind-numbing regularity. It happens on a daily basis and coincides with the first offspring to pass the threshold of our happy home. Preceded by a slam of my abused front door, I cringe at the inquiry that's issued at an increasingly higher decibel as the days go by.
"What's for dinner?!?!"
And I shudder.
How did this happen? Food used to be fun. I used to enjoy cooking. What phenomenon has robbed me of this former delight???
Ah, yes. Nineteen years of being responsible for planning, shopping, preparing and serving delicious, nutritious and interesting meals to delight the ever-evolving tastes and senses of my three darling children.
Witnessing other parents suffering at the whim of their picky eater, I was determined not to suffer the same fate and endeavored to expose my kids to a variety of tastes and textures...often incorporating recipes of other cultures and regions into our family diet....and it worked!
My kids are generally not fussy about food and will try almost anything once, which serves them well as they make their way out into the world. When my four year old was observed at a family function by-passing a platter of eclairs for the vegetable/dip tray, my heart sang. At a mostly adult function, my nine year old accepted the challenge of trying raw oysters. I was pleased and proud. (Okay, I was really grossed out, too...but proud.) Not many ten year olds will gamely try sushi, but mine did, and found she really likes it. Times like those, I'm glad I avoided the Kraft dinner and hotdogs rut, but it hasn't been easy.
Almost two decades of well-thought out menus. 6, 935 dinners - the responsibility resting solely on my shoulders. Tiring work, people.
Lest you think my culinary efforts were always met with joy, I have to admit that isn't the case. There's been more than a bit of cajoling involved. Pleading? Yes. I've watched little faces scrunched up in disgust more times than I'd like to remember. On more than one occasion, my dinner table has been the site of little mini-wars, me pitted against aNapolenonic demon small person who declared they WERE. NOT. EATING. THAT. I recall a few occasions after introducing a new dish when I had to explain gagging was not an appropriate response. However, I perservered. Any dinner-mutiny was met with the calm, yet firm admonishment that one had to try new things at least once before declaring it was nuclear fallout and therefore, inedible crap.
Over the years, I've contented myself knowing I, their mother, was doing the right thing. At the very least, I believed I could out-last their lack of gratitude, whiny comments, facial expressions, and near-vomit-on-demand routine.
I was wrong.
They finally wore me down. Tonight, the youngest, Sugah Pie, executed the final blow. She reminded me, as she constantly does, "I'll be thirteen soon and that's old enough to know what I want to try or not." Suddenly, I accepted the battles have exhausted me. I DESPISE those three words - WFD - and the complaints that are sure to follow. I'm especially sick of cooking for a bunch of well-rounded ingrates.
Before I fully surrendered and retired to my room in tears, I slammed the plates on the table and muttered through clenched teeth,
"You wanna know what's for dinner? Fine. Here's your GROSS and YUCK. Choke it down because it's same thing you're gonna get until you move out. SO. STOP. ASKING."
"What's for dinner?!?!"
And I shudder.
How did this happen? Food used to be fun. I used to enjoy cooking. What phenomenon has robbed me of this former delight???
Ah, yes. Nineteen years of being responsible for planning, shopping, preparing and serving delicious, nutritious and interesting meals to delight the ever-evolving tastes and senses of my three darling children.
Witnessing other parents suffering at the whim of their picky eater, I was determined not to suffer the same fate and endeavored to expose my kids to a variety of tastes and textures...often incorporating recipes of other cultures and regions into our family diet....and it worked!
My kids are generally not fussy about food and will try almost anything once, which serves them well as they make their way out into the world. When my four year old was observed at a family function by-passing a platter of eclairs for the vegetable/dip tray, my heart sang. At a mostly adult function, my nine year old accepted the challenge of trying raw oysters. I was pleased and proud. (Okay, I was really grossed out, too...but proud.) Not many ten year olds will gamely try sushi, but mine did, and found she really likes it. Times like those, I'm glad I avoided the Kraft dinner and hotdogs rut, but it hasn't been easy.
Almost two decades of well-thought out menus. 6, 935 dinners - the responsibility resting solely on my shoulders. Tiring work, people.
Lest you think my culinary efforts were always met with joy, I have to admit that isn't the case. There's been more than a bit of cajoling involved. Pleading? Yes. I've watched little faces scrunched up in disgust more times than I'd like to remember. On more than one occasion, my dinner table has been the site of little mini-wars, me pitted against a
Over the years, I've contented myself knowing I, their mother, was doing the right thing. At the very least, I believed I could out-last their lack of gratitude, whiny comments, facial expressions, and near-vomit-on-demand routine.
I was wrong.
They finally wore me down. Tonight, the youngest, Sugah Pie, executed the final blow. She reminded me, as she constantly does, "I'll be thirteen soon and that's old enough to know what I want to try or not." Suddenly, I accepted the battles have exhausted me. I DESPISE those three words - WFD - and the complaints that are sure to follow. I'm especially sick of cooking for a bunch of well-rounded ingrates.
Before I fully surrendered and retired to my room in tears, I slammed the plates on the table and muttered through clenched teeth,
"You wanna know what's for dinner? Fine. Here's your GROSS and YUCK. Choke it down because it's same thing you're gonna get until you move out. SO. STOP. ASKING."
3 comments:
Not sure that's a very committed surrender Tweet.
So what's next, you hang a white dish rag over a slotted spoon and wave it while hiding in the pantry?
Does Dominos supply the family with boiler plate surrender terms for you to sign?
Do you have to go ride on some boat in Lake Erie and present your flag of surrender to Emeril?
Come on, dish!
Your friend - Martha Stewart ;)
I just refuse to short-order cook.
Mine are still fussy eaters... but I got the eldest to actually eat 5 peas last night...
We'll take that.
You should just have picked up your beverage and said.. fine.. cook your own. Dh grumbled once about the dust... he's shut up since he learned where the dust rags are :)Although, he'll try anything I make once... so I can't complain about him.
S.
Ah, now, this makes sense. When I first checked, this entry had a number of thin gray lines hanging over dear Calvin.
Very funny, Tweet. Good for you for encouraging them to try different things (oysters gross me out too). I find it exhausting to try and feed myself. I can't imagine the drain of 3 meals a day for a family.
Prof
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