Posts Tagged ‘cooking’

Sometime in the beginning of January, I bought a little bit of garlic.  A medium-sized plastic tin full of pre-peeled cloves.  Very practical, I thought to myself as I loaded them into that week’s grocery cart.   Well done.   And, for just $1.44?  A steal, no doubt.  Yay, me.  Ever the thrifty one, yup, that’s me.

Husband arrived home that night and noticed my new purchase in the refrigerator.

Wow. He calls out to me, as I sit in the adjoining room.  That’s a LOT of garlic!

Truly surprised that a) he would even notice but also that b) he thought it too much, I answered,

Well, not really.  I cook with garlic all the time!  I’m sure I’ll get right through it.  You just don’t know how much I actually need garlic.  You’ll see.

Alright. But, I can just tell in his voice that he doubts me.  That he thinks I’m being wasteful…again.

I’ll show him, I thought to myself.   I will.

So, today (two months later), when I went to make a baked ziti and reached for a little garlic powder before I remembered that…oh, yeeeeah.  I’ve got that real garlic somewhere in here and…

Sigh.  Oh, go ahead.  Mark the date and time.  I hereby admit, he was right.

Nuts.  Hate when that happens.

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I’ve mentioned before that Big Brother has become something of a fussbudget when it comes to dinner.  And, I’m not exactly serving up brussels sprouts and organic chicken.   I’ll feed the kid Kraft mac & cheese, a chicken patty, spaghettio’s, whatever.  Just eat it, punk.   Nutritionally, he’s fine.  He loves all fruits and most vegetables, gets a boatload of protein from countless lunchtime pb & js.  But, the main course is killing me.
And his latest?  After I’ve indulged him by letting him request the night’s main course (I know, I know…I’m creating this monster), and he’s settled in his chair, he’ll proceed to eat everything else on the plate and then tell me his main course is cold.  “Mom?”  (“Yes, W.”)  “My mac is cold.  Will you reheat this for me?”
And, I do.  Once, sometimes twice.  But, it’s really starting to bug me.  The act is getting old.  So, when the request came a few nights ago, and subsequently the first reheat, I place the warmed meal in front of him.
“Is it too hot now, Mom?”
“I don’t think so, W”
But still, just in case, he talks to Little Brother (who will happily eat anything) and plays a bit.  Waiting for it to cool.  A minute or so later he deigns to lift his spoon.   And, for something like the nine milllionth time in nine million days he rolls his eyes and says to me…
“Oh no, Mom.  It’s cold again.”
Well, I lost it.  In a fit of total frustration, I raced over to the table.  Took the spoon out of his bowl, slammed it back down onto his placemat, yanked the bowl away, marched back towards the kitchen, threw the bowl in the micro and with my back turned to them said….(not quietly)
“You know what, W?!?   Next time, you won’t get a choice!  Next time, I’m serving you POOP!
Yup.  I said that.  I did.
And after about two beats of stunned silence later, from the table I hear,
“Mwaaahhhhhhhhhhh! Noooooo, Mom, please don’t serv…”
Oh my goodness.  Does my child actually believe that I would serve him feces?  Seriously?
Back at the table, wrap my arms around him.  “Oh, W.   Stop.   I wouldn’t do that.  I was kidding!  Really.  I promise, honey.  No poop for dinner.”
Sniffling.  Collecting himself.  “You wouldn’t?”
“Oh, no.  Of course not.  I mean, imagine the logistics of that.”

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