Kitchen Witch of the West
It can kill every single person in our family to collaborately decide on dinner. None of my kids are selfless enough to say to each other, ‘aww, yeah, lets have what you want.’ When my day starts at five-thirty in the morning and doesn’t end til 5 (not including homework whilst cooking, baths, etc, and my second job as a copywright after they’re all tucked in bed), there are those tired moments I’ll forget and the question will slip, usually in the car. There will then begin an instant cacaphony of undecipherable frustration. It ends when someone’s seat gets kicked from behind and someone else says they’d rather starve, barf, or throw someone else into a pit of crocs.
Let me introduce my children to you, dear Reader, so you can get a better understanding of how I’m developing myself into a chef. Lets first define what ‘chef’ means in my world:
Chef (shef), n. 1. the chief cook, esp. in the running of a household, responsible for menu planning and overseeing food preperation; 2. adj. company executive/suzie-homeaker, culinary expirimentor, philanthropist, mind-reader, psycho-analyst, NATO peace-keeper, Bill Nye the Science Guy, Judge Judy, sorceress, Mother Theresa. 3. vb. To be prepared at all times to be all of def 2 within the span of food preperation.
The Beast Child, who’s 10 years old and was once an ox, dictator, or t.v. evangelist in a past life, will refuse to eat if I cook something he doesn’t like. He looks like a line-backer and has the brute strength of one, a tender heart, a cheeky (nearly) irresistable dimple when he half-grins, and a immovable will of titanium. His tastes run to ramen, mac and cheese, and packaged alfredo. Russ isn’t above offering bribery for meal appeal. As much as I’d appreciate the ten bucks a kid owes him at school or a shoulder massage after being Mother of the World for half of 24 hours, he has to get some kind of decent nourishment. Think he’ll fall for the ol’ veg in the noddle trick? Uh-uh. Think he’d be bribed to eat it for five bucks? Oh yeah. Bad news is that I’m strapped on cash and not really hot on turning Russ into a mob boss. Russ has heart the size of the Grand Canyon, a propensity to manipulation, and looks so adorable when he gets caught and blushes.
The Troubadour Child, my 8 year old, who has a waspish temper that shoots off like a firecracker, will be deliberately provoked by his brother into instant wordy insults like, “yeah, well I hope Mom makes that and you choke to death and I’m going to smile while you choke because of how selfish you are and laugh at your ugly face, and when you die I’m going to bury you with dead squirrels’ or ‘you’re so stupid I hope your stomach and your lungs and your intestines and liver rot and fall out your bottom.’ Despite the fact I get him in trouble for saying those things, there’s a deep well of appreciation for the gruesome creativeness of a right-brained, exhausted, 8 year-old middle child. He’s as sensitive as raw nerves, devoted to making up abstract role-playing games and always has at least three girlfriends at a time. His tastes are one of the easier traits of his personality. For him its about textures. Give him a noodle that’s too slimy and…yeah, guess who gets to clean that up. He’s a cuddler, chief mess maker, and could completely miss out on a freight train running three feet away from him if he was busy inside his own mind.
The Youngest Child, the beautiful fairy baby with a queenly aire at age 6, isn’t too picky and eats like a bird. If Russ is the one in her current favor and he says he doesn’t like the menu, neither does she. If Gid’s the favored one and doesn’t want to eat the dinner just because Russ pushed his buttons, neither does she. Anyway, she’d rather be dancing than eating. Getting her to sit still and focus on anything longer than 30 seconds takes Mother Theresa’s patience. She’s as sweet as can be, winner of constant praise from her teacher over her over-helpful and caring nature, and a mind that will flit off into a daydream five seconds after you start talking. She’s very self aware of how beautiful she is, and watches herself dancing or striking poses in the mirror….which often times can scare her mother.
On a rare eclypse of the moon, they will uniformally agree upon the menu. Those are the nights I go pour a salt circle around our house, light candles to the four directions of the winds, find my besom and chant an exorcism. Its simply too suspicious for that to happen. A few tried and true recipes will, upon some lucky occasions, please two of them and the third will pick unhappily until they’re full. Those recipes are (exluding mac and cheese, ramen, and packaged alfredo) include:
Chicken tenders eggwashed, rolled in rice crispies, sprinkled with garlic, little butter and salt, and baked.
Chicken tenders baked with stuffing.
Vegitables completely erased by velveeta cheese.
Home-made pizzas.
That’s it. Tonight, we will come to the point where I will walk into the kitchen with dragging steps, open the freezer and stare at the selection of frozen meats. I will look at everything for the millionth time as if something new is going to hit me and I’ll be as magically inspired as Glenda the Good Witch. It most likely won’t happen, but a girl can hope. The reality is that if I cook something new, I will not be Glenda the Good Witch. I’ll be the ugly, mean Green Witch and my children will be those squwaking, flying monkeys in servitude to do wicked deeds I ask, like eating what I cook.
Sigh.
Let me introduce my children to you, dear Reader, so you can get a better understanding of how I’m developing myself into a chef. Lets first define what ‘chef’ means in my world:
Chef (shef), n. 1. the chief cook, esp. in the running of a household, responsible for menu planning and overseeing food preperation; 2. adj. company executive/suzie-homeaker, culinary expirimentor, philanthropist, mind-reader, psycho-analyst, NATO peace-keeper, Bill Nye the Science Guy, Judge Judy, sorceress, Mother Theresa. 3. vb. To be prepared at all times to be all of def 2 within the span of food preperation.
The Beast Child, who’s 10 years old and was once an ox, dictator, or t.v. evangelist in a past life, will refuse to eat if I cook something he doesn’t like. He looks like a line-backer and has the brute strength of one, a tender heart, a cheeky (nearly) irresistable dimple when he half-grins, and a immovable will of titanium. His tastes run to ramen, mac and cheese, and packaged alfredo. Russ isn’t above offering bribery for meal appeal. As much as I’d appreciate the ten bucks a kid owes him at school or a shoulder massage after being Mother of the World for half of 24 hours, he has to get some kind of decent nourishment. Think he’ll fall for the ol’ veg in the noddle trick? Uh-uh. Think he’d be bribed to eat it for five bucks? Oh yeah. Bad news is that I’m strapped on cash and not really hot on turning Russ into a mob boss. Russ has heart the size of the Grand Canyon, a propensity to manipulation, and looks so adorable when he gets caught and blushes.
The Troubadour Child, my 8 year old, who has a waspish temper that shoots off like a firecracker, will be deliberately provoked by his brother into instant wordy insults like, “yeah, well I hope Mom makes that and you choke to death and I’m going to smile while you choke because of how selfish you are and laugh at your ugly face, and when you die I’m going to bury you with dead squirrels’ or ‘you’re so stupid I hope your stomach and your lungs and your intestines and liver rot and fall out your bottom.’ Despite the fact I get him in trouble for saying those things, there’s a deep well of appreciation for the gruesome creativeness of a right-brained, exhausted, 8 year-old middle child. He’s as sensitive as raw nerves, devoted to making up abstract role-playing games and always has at least three girlfriends at a time. His tastes are one of the easier traits of his personality. For him its about textures. Give him a noodle that’s too slimy and…yeah, guess who gets to clean that up. He’s a cuddler, chief mess maker, and could completely miss out on a freight train running three feet away from him if he was busy inside his own mind.
The Youngest Child, the beautiful fairy baby with a queenly aire at age 6, isn’t too picky and eats like a bird. If Russ is the one in her current favor and he says he doesn’t like the menu, neither does she. If Gid’s the favored one and doesn’t want to eat the dinner just because Russ pushed his buttons, neither does she. Anyway, she’d rather be dancing than eating. Getting her to sit still and focus on anything longer than 30 seconds takes Mother Theresa’s patience. She’s as sweet as can be, winner of constant praise from her teacher over her over-helpful and caring nature, and a mind that will flit off into a daydream five seconds after you start talking. She’s very self aware of how beautiful she is, and watches herself dancing or striking poses in the mirror….which often times can scare her mother.
On a rare eclypse of the moon, they will uniformally agree upon the menu. Those are the nights I go pour a salt circle around our house, light candles to the four directions of the winds, find my besom and chant an exorcism. Its simply too suspicious for that to happen. A few tried and true recipes will, upon some lucky occasions, please two of them and the third will pick unhappily until they’re full. Those recipes are (exluding mac and cheese, ramen, and packaged alfredo) include:
Chicken tenders eggwashed, rolled in rice crispies, sprinkled with garlic, little butter and salt, and baked.
Chicken tenders baked with stuffing.
Vegitables completely erased by velveeta cheese.
Home-made pizzas.
That’s it. Tonight, we will come to the point where I will walk into the kitchen with dragging steps, open the freezer and stare at the selection of frozen meats. I will look at everything for the millionth time as if something new is going to hit me and I’ll be as magically inspired as Glenda the Good Witch. It most likely won’t happen, but a girl can hope. The reality is that if I cook something new, I will not be Glenda the Good Witch. I’ll be the ugly, mean Green Witch and my children will be those squwaking, flying monkeys in servitude to do wicked deeds I ask, like eating what I cook.
Sigh.
Comments
Post a Comment