It's the week of Thanksgiving and I must endure the seasonal complaint from the one son who thinks any time poultry graces the table, it is a personal slight. Never mind that I make his favorite dessert, it is the bird itself that offends.
"Why do we have to have turkey?" He laments. Having researched the holiday and mentioned that this was not the only thing served. However, he doesn't necessarily think venison, lobster or clams are viable options either. After being offered alternatives, he acknowledged that he doesn't want historical, he just wants this traditional part omitted. "Why can't we have steak? I'd be thankful for that." The complaint gets some traction with this alternate proposal from his older brother.
Now I'm a reasonable mother. I have explained that he need not eat any turkey ever. But children, being children do not consider compromise meeting the adult halfway; let me rephrase that, children being children do not consider compromise. He made me a helpful list of the foods traditionally served at this holiday in November that he doesn't like. It included the following:
Turkey
Gravy
Stuffing (Chestnut and/or Cornbread)
Mashed Potatoes
Sweet Potatoes
Cranberry relish, jelly, Cranberries
Green beans
Roasted vegetables
Mushrooms
Broccoli
Crescent rolls
When I pointed out that this left only Pumpkin pie and whipped cream, he hastily grabbed the list and added Cool Whip --so I would know the whipped cream must be fresh. "It would cut down on the dishes and the calories." he offered helpfully, "....and the expense."
Now I know that sarcasm is not a recommended parenting technique; but clearly, gastronomic empathy for any taste buds other than his own was lacking. It was time for something drastic.
"How about I just serve you Captain Crunch?" I asked.
"What?"
"Sure. Cold cereal. No fuss. No work. No worries. You like Captain Crunch and there would be no offending smells in your kitchen. You know, there are brothers and sisters who Don't like pumpkin chiffon pie. This way, no one would smell something they don't like or have to endure seeing a food they didn't want on the holiday."
"But..." he was crumbling as he envisioned that once a year favorite pie not happening.
"In fact, we could make it a tradition for Christmas and Easter and every holiday. I bet if I wrote that we were having this as our feast, we could have a commercial with General Mills...."
"Well....maybe we could have apple pie for my sisters who don't like pumpkin." he started to break.
"It would be okay if we had pies you don't like?"
"I guess so..."
"What about me? I can't eat sweets right now. What will I eat?" I asked.
"Can you eat turkey?"
"Yes. But I also will need vegetables, as I can't eat the breads or the sweet potatoes."
"I guess we can have a turkey."
"And my folks. They really like chestnut stuffing and giblet gravy..."
"Okay."
"And your sister lives for making the mashed potatoes and your brother LOVES cranberries."
"I guess so..."
"Don't forget, your dad loves mushrooms and Paul devours crescent rolls and broccoli."
"So....we have to make the whole dinner?" he asked fearfully.
"I'm afraid so..."
"But promise me one thing?" he asked.
"What's that sweetie?"
"You'll use fresh whipped cream, not a can or Cool Whip?"
I nodded.
And he smiled and left the table, the peace talks had been victorious in his opinion. I'm now thankful that 1) I had enough family to get each dish back, 2) he didn't call my bluff and 3) this holiday only comes once a year.
Originally run on Nov. 21, 2010.
Showing posts with label meal planning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meal planning. Show all posts
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
What's on the Menu?
An oldie but a goodie re-run for today.
Each week I post a menu, including Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner and Snack, plus notes of who has hot lunch and if there are any specials –like a team Pizza Night or some such. When I first started the Menu, there were of course, complaints.
“I …DON’T…LIKE...CHICKEN!” Ignoring the fact that pasta was also listed for that evening, such that he didn’t have to eat the chicken, he howled at the injustice of it all. Having chicken simply available was tantamount to a poisoning of the dining experience in my seven year old’s mind.
Similarly, my oldest groaned when he saw pasta without meatballs listed, and another day where eggs were the primary source of protein. He lives on red meat and potatoes, or would if the budget allowed. When the nine year old stamped her foot in protest of seeing beans as the selected vegetable for a night with hamburgers, I instituted two new rules regarding meal time.
Complaints equals Kitchen Patrol.
Reaching back into family lore, I took a tip from my Granddaddy’s days as a herder in Southeast Texas. Cowboys had a simple rule about meal time. If you complained, you got to do the dishes. Granddaddy had made it a point of honor to never get stuck with KP duty. One evening, so the story goes, his fellow cowboys and field hands plotted to get “Green” to do clean up. They laced his scrambled eggs with enough Tabasco to kill a Bull.
Granddaddy sat down to his eggs and took a bite. His eyes popped and he stood up quickly, “Boy That’s HOT!” he gasped.
Everyone’s eyes were on him as he stood. The he smiled, “But it’s just the way I like it.”
Granddaddy never did have to do dishes.
My children are inspired by his wit and such a devotion to avoiding unnecessary and unpleasant tasks, and thus have learned not to make such announcements in the presence of their Mother.
The second rule is a concession on my part to the legitimacy of not agreeing with the menu planner’s choices. It also eliminates sullen faces at the table. If a child objects strongly to the dinner on tap, they may request the option of cold cereal, provided they make the request before the meal is actually served. This also prevents my getting overly frustrated at having fixed a meal which no one eats or fretting over the fact that someone did not eat at all.
Special Orders Upset Us.
I admit, the mistake was ours to begin with, we wanted to raise strong minded individuals. We now must cope with their individualized opinions about how food should be prepared and augmented. We have learned that the transitive property that works so well with algebra (if a=b and b=c then a=c) does not work with children and food.
Take hotdogs as a prime example. All of my children will happily scarf down up to three hot dogs a piece, or as many as money and parental patience will allow, sans condiments or any special preparation techniques, if we are at a ball park.
At home however, their appetites become a bit more selective. The oldest likes his grilled with the buns toasted and then adds ketchup or mustard, depending upon his mood.
The second prefers hers sans bun with ketchup or chili on the side for dipping.
My third wants her dogs boiled and in a soft bun, no condiments.
The forth likes two in soft not crunchy buns and will accept boiled or grilled if the grilled have no black. He also uses ketchup excessively.
The fifth likes hers to be obliterated by ketchup but for the bun to be absolutely “clean” but toasted. I don’t know how this is possible physically.
The sixth howls for a bun but eats his dog cut up, dipping it in ketchup and usually rips the bun into shreds and molds it into a gooey inedible red ball of dough before asking for seconds.
In the interest of self preservation, I haven’t introduced the toddlers to hot dogs yet.
The Trifecta List
Some of this knowledge has become so routine for me that it is institutional memory. As such, I forget that when visitors like grand parents show up, my frame of reference for meal time is radically skewed from most people’s reality. As such, I tried to create a list of meals entitled, Trifectas. For babysitters and grand-parents and any other friends and family who for some reason have to take on the task of cooking for my horde, these meals were guaranteed successes.
Upon examining my first three choices, Pancakes and Bacon, Spaghetti and Meatballs and Fietas with Beans and Rice, I found each involved a level of complexity that rivaled the Hot Dog senario.
Looking at the list, my in-laws opted to run the kitchen like short order chefs, cooking each child’s meals separately and my parents when they visit, just order out.
I revised the menu for babysitters and Grandparents: Cold cereal, it’s what’s for dinner.
Each week I post a menu, including Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner and Snack, plus notes of who has hot lunch and if there are any specials –like a team Pizza Night or some such. When I first started the Menu, there were of course, complaints.
“I …DON’T…LIKE...CHICKEN!” Ignoring the fact that pasta was also listed for that evening, such that he didn’t have to eat the chicken, he howled at the injustice of it all. Having chicken simply available was tantamount to a poisoning of the dining experience in my seven year old’s mind.
Similarly, my oldest groaned when he saw pasta without meatballs listed, and another day where eggs were the primary source of protein. He lives on red meat and potatoes, or would if the budget allowed. When the nine year old stamped her foot in protest of seeing beans as the selected vegetable for a night with hamburgers, I instituted two new rules regarding meal time.
Complaints equals Kitchen Patrol.
Reaching back into family lore, I took a tip from my Granddaddy’s days as a herder in Southeast Texas. Cowboys had a simple rule about meal time. If you complained, you got to do the dishes. Granddaddy had made it a point of honor to never get stuck with KP duty. One evening, so the story goes, his fellow cowboys and field hands plotted to get “Green” to do clean up. They laced his scrambled eggs with enough Tabasco to kill a Bull.
Granddaddy sat down to his eggs and took a bite. His eyes popped and he stood up quickly, “Boy That’s HOT!” he gasped.
Everyone’s eyes were on him as he stood. The he smiled, “But it’s just the way I like it.”
Granddaddy never did have to do dishes.
My children are inspired by his wit and such a devotion to avoiding unnecessary and unpleasant tasks, and thus have learned not to make such announcements in the presence of their Mother.
The second rule is a concession on my part to the legitimacy of not agreeing with the menu planner’s choices. It also eliminates sullen faces at the table. If a child objects strongly to the dinner on tap, they may request the option of cold cereal, provided they make the request before the meal is actually served. This also prevents my getting overly frustrated at having fixed a meal which no one eats or fretting over the fact that someone did not eat at all.
Special Orders Upset Us.
I admit, the mistake was ours to begin with, we wanted to raise strong minded individuals. We now must cope with their individualized opinions about how food should be prepared and augmented. We have learned that the transitive property that works so well with algebra (if a=b and b=c then a=c) does not work with children and food.
Take hotdogs as a prime example. All of my children will happily scarf down up to three hot dogs a piece, or as many as money and parental patience will allow, sans condiments or any special preparation techniques, if we are at a ball park.
At home however, their appetites become a bit more selective. The oldest likes his grilled with the buns toasted and then adds ketchup or mustard, depending upon his mood.
The second prefers hers sans bun with ketchup or chili on the side for dipping.
My third wants her dogs boiled and in a soft bun, no condiments.
The forth likes two in soft not crunchy buns and will accept boiled or grilled if the grilled have no black. He also uses ketchup excessively.
The fifth likes hers to be obliterated by ketchup but for the bun to be absolutely “clean” but toasted. I don’t know how this is possible physically.
The sixth howls for a bun but eats his dog cut up, dipping it in ketchup and usually rips the bun into shreds and molds it into a gooey inedible red ball of dough before asking for seconds.
In the interest of self preservation, I haven’t introduced the toddlers to hot dogs yet.
The Trifecta List
Some of this knowledge has become so routine for me that it is institutional memory. As such, I forget that when visitors like grand parents show up, my frame of reference for meal time is radically skewed from most people’s reality. As such, I tried to create a list of meals entitled, Trifectas. For babysitters and grand-parents and any other friends and family who for some reason have to take on the task of cooking for my horde, these meals were guaranteed successes.
Upon examining my first three choices, Pancakes and Bacon, Spaghetti and Meatballs and Fietas with Beans and Rice, I found each involved a level of complexity that rivaled the Hot Dog senario.
Looking at the list, my in-laws opted to run the kitchen like short order chefs, cooking each child’s meals separately and my parents when they visit, just order out.
I revised the menu for babysitters and Grandparents: Cold cereal, it’s what’s for dinner.
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