This is an actual picture from my kitchen tonight.
For now, let’s avoid the fact that there are no vegetables on the plate, and focus on the burnt mini corn dogs. This dish was not the original meal I fixed. The first – a stir fry with broccoli and chicken – was burnt beyond eating.
After scrapping the stir fry, I put a handful of frozen mini corn dogs under the broiler. Which I also burned.
Fortunately, a few of the bite-size corn dogs were salvaged, and I served them along with steamed broccoli, spaghetti noodles (because it’s the one thing I know my son will finish), and sliced strawberries (because nutrition, or whatever).
This all happened after ranting to a six and ten year old for a solid five-minutes about how this year I was not going to fix separate meals for everyone.
“No more cooking two different dinners just because one of you doesn’t like what’s on the menu,” I said.
And then I burnt everything and had to make…two separate dinners.
The universe is exceptionally skilled at letting me know when I’m acting like an idiot, ranting and raving as if I were standing on a podium trying to convince everyone to drink strychnine.
My husband is home now and has turned on a Hogan’s Heros rerun while explaining the rules of Stratego to the kids. Hogan’s Heros because it’s the only show he could find that didn’t reference oral sex or S&M every other commercial break, and Stratego because he promised to bring them home a surprise to make up for mom’s pre-dinner sermon.
When he first got home, I met him in the kitchen and said, “Look honey, I made you spaghetti and burnt corn dogs.”
Without a hint of sarcasm, he responded, “Yum, I love burnt corn dogs,” and then ate all four.
I don’t have any pithy commentary on what I learned after burning the corn dogs. I am no better at being a parent – or chef – than I was this morning. Honestly, I’m still a little exhausted from it all, and can’t help but look longingly at Colonel Hogan’s cigarette – even though actual cigarette smoke usually makes me gag anymore.
I’ll try again tomorrow. Maybe I can narrow my cooking efforts to one dinner, and pull back on my habit of sermonizing every little parenting detail.