My son, like a mad man, calls me into the living room. I’m thinking he found something horrible, puked all over, or broke something. I run in to find him lounging on the couch watching a Paula Deen cooking show.
Me: That is nice.
Max: Write down the ingredients so you know how to make them. Do you have paper?
Grrr. It is no mystery to me that my family hates my cooking. I’m always striving to incorporate more and more vegetables and not always make the same things. Sometimes I get a smile (the “not too bad” one). Other times my son is left pouting, because he is STARVING (he couldn’t eat the atrocity I laid out before him) and my husband eats an orange after dinner (to clean his damaged palate, after the most vile rubbish has lain on it).
I say BOOOOOO to them! Stop being so picky!! It cannot always be cupcakes and red meat! Strike! Strike! I’m making brussel sprouts and liver every night for the rest of our lives!!!