Somebody should let a person know that I'd be spending so much time in the kitchen. Seriously, I know this room better than I know my parents. Growing up, somebody should tell you : Hey, if you have a family, guess what. People get hungry every TWO to THREE HOURS. You are going to be looking at little faces looking up at you saying the dreaded words. "Mom, what can I have?"
I want to see them when they get home from school, but those happy faces always come in with that awful hanging question, and the empty stomach. I am prepared to list off about a million healthy choices and have my child shake her head at all of them. Here's my pathetic list and routine:
Emma looks up at me. Starving. I can actually see her getting skinnier as she stares at me.
"Well," I say nervously, knowing she's stabbing me in my visibly weakest area,"How bout an apple?" "I hate apples." "Carrots?" no "Bagel and cream cheese?" nose wrinkle "Rice cake?" my kids have eaten more rice cakes than Japan "Applesauce?" uh no "String cheese?" ick "Nuts? Raisins?" I read about those in a mom magazine. Kids love them. My kids? No, and no. "Macaroni and cheese?" She lights up. Damn. I have to boil water. I don't even make the mac and cheese like my friend Julia. I wish she lived here.
Emma trots off to watch High School Musical (that's another thing -- when did movies get so bad?) polluting her from the outside while I make bad food to pollute her on the inside. I used to care. It was only PBS and vegetables. Now, I can't care, every two to three hours. Now it's Goldfish and Sponge Bob.
I get out my pots and pans. I know them individually. We spend a great deal of time in each other's company. They are silent and offer little companionship. There are no bright polka dots, or chattery banter. I bathe them, put them away ( throw them in the cabinet and slam the door before they can fall out), take them out again, baste them in butter, put in ingredients. It's a sterile relationship, bathed in hate from my side. Because I'm not a good cook. Because no one could be a good cook when you're faced with cooking every two to three hours. Pioneer women know what I'm talking about (and all of them read my blog). They must have stared lethargically at their families. They must have looked at every chicken pecking around, as a cooked way to keep the family quiet for ten minutes. Scavengers. No wonder all those women look like a career criminals in those old black and white grainy photos. They wanted to die.
Even Cinderella had a night off. She had the ball. She got the big dance, those special shoes. And when she was cooking, she had mice friends and a great singing voice. Oh, and she had grace. Barry has alot of grace. But I don't see him cooking.
The stomach is impossible because it's needy, it's open to all takers, and it's demanding. And I have five who make their presence known. One doesn't like cantalope, one doesn't like candy, one doesn't like cheese, one doesn't like rice, one likes all of those, preferably mixed together. If I survive this section of my life, I'm going to come out of it with a terrible voo doo hex on the kitchen. I'll start eating grass, and avoiding dishes. Maybe this is why pot lucks are so exciting when you're older. The luck part means you didn't have to cook everything.
I know it'll only get worse. I'm hoping to make peace with it. I hope I end up like my gramma. Boiling broccoli on the stove, putting a roast in the oven with those strings tied around it. Hovering over my grandkids who drive up for a visit. When they're getting ready to go, tottering in, looking conspiratorily at them, "You want a sandwich for the road, right? Let me get you some sandwiches. You'll get hungry. You need them. No trouble, honey." And I'll go humming, off into the kitchen to whip up some leftover ham into the world's greatest sandwiches. So while the kids are on the road, they'll open them up and think of me momentarily. Because grandkids are grateful. There'll be a pickle in there too, and some cookies, because Grammas think that way.
I want to see them when they get home from school, but those happy faces always come in with that awful hanging question, and the empty stomach. I am prepared to list off about a million healthy choices and have my child shake her head at all of them. Here's my pathetic list and routine:
Emma looks up at me. Starving. I can actually see her getting skinnier as she stares at me.
"Well," I say nervously, knowing she's stabbing me in my visibly weakest area,"How bout an apple?" "I hate apples." "Carrots?" no "Bagel and cream cheese?" nose wrinkle "Rice cake?" my kids have eaten more rice cakes than Japan "Applesauce?" uh no "String cheese?" ick "Nuts? Raisins?" I read about those in a mom magazine. Kids love them. My kids? No, and no. "Macaroni and cheese?" She lights up. Damn. I have to boil water. I don't even make the mac and cheese like my friend Julia. I wish she lived here.
Emma trots off to watch High School Musical (that's another thing -- when did movies get so bad?) polluting her from the outside while I make bad food to pollute her on the inside. I used to care. It was only PBS and vegetables. Now, I can't care, every two to three hours. Now it's Goldfish and Sponge Bob.
I get out my pots and pans. I know them individually. We spend a great deal of time in each other's company. They are silent and offer little companionship. There are no bright polka dots, or chattery banter. I bathe them, put them away ( throw them in the cabinet and slam the door before they can fall out), take them out again, baste them in butter, put in ingredients. It's a sterile relationship, bathed in hate from my side. Because I'm not a good cook. Because no one could be a good cook when you're faced with cooking every two to three hours. Pioneer women know what I'm talking about (and all of them read my blog). They must have stared lethargically at their families. They must have looked at every chicken pecking around, as a cooked way to keep the family quiet for ten minutes. Scavengers. No wonder all those women look like a career criminals in those old black and white grainy photos. They wanted to die.
Even Cinderella had a night off. She had the ball. She got the big dance, those special shoes. And when she was cooking, she had mice friends and a great singing voice. Oh, and she had grace. Barry has alot of grace. But I don't see him cooking.
The stomach is impossible because it's needy, it's open to all takers, and it's demanding. And I have five who make their presence known. One doesn't like cantalope, one doesn't like candy, one doesn't like cheese, one doesn't like rice, one likes all of those, preferably mixed together. If I survive this section of my life, I'm going to come out of it with a terrible voo doo hex on the kitchen. I'll start eating grass, and avoiding dishes. Maybe this is why pot lucks are so exciting when you're older. The luck part means you didn't have to cook everything.
I know it'll only get worse. I'm hoping to make peace with it. I hope I end up like my gramma. Boiling broccoli on the stove, putting a roast in the oven with those strings tied around it. Hovering over my grandkids who drive up for a visit. When they're getting ready to go, tottering in, looking conspiratorily at them, "You want a sandwich for the road, right? Let me get you some sandwiches. You'll get hungry. You need them. No trouble, honey." And I'll go humming, off into the kitchen to whip up some leftover ham into the world's greatest sandwiches. So while the kids are on the road, they'll open them up and think of me momentarily. Because grandkids are grateful. There'll be a pickle in there too, and some cookies, because Grammas think that way.
