Last night it was the broth. I forgot to add the bullion to the water. A fairly bland risotto resulted.
Tonight I mistook “apple cider” for “apple cider vinegar.” Oops. Thankfully no parsnips were rendered inedible by the mistake, but with two strikes against me in as many days, I’m contemplating going on strike myself.
Sounds kind of dreamy, going on strike. No stress over meals, no hot ovens to peak in, no frantically pulling a meal together only to have it rejected without even being tested. Ah, what a life.
Then again, shall we imagine, for a moment, what would happen if Mom actually went on strike?
Manchild, being the obedient, law-abiding citizen of the home that he is, knows that Mom is in charge of the food supply. Thus, it is not his business to think about what to eat or when. And thus, when hunger strikes, he’s a bit of a mess. Tears, yes. Tantrums, oh my. Irrationality, please help us! If ever we get to that point, we simply need to feed the beast. With anything we can to attract his attention. Like . . . lemonade.
Lemonade? Rock on.
Micah can feed himself, for course, but it isn’t a priority for him to do so. And so he’ll sit and work and work and work until his hands begin to shake and he’s feeling slightly faint. That’s when he knows it’s time for something quick. Like candy. Gotta get the blood sugar up, stat.
Candy? Rock on.
Squish would be fine. He’s a survivor. He knows where the cheese is. So, what’s the problem? Mom’s not making dinner? Who cares? We can have cheese.
Cheese? Rock on.
So . . . never mind. I am going on strike. Cheese, candy, and lemonade sounds like a great dinner.
Bring it on.