Dear Miscreant Children,
Somewhere between some time ago and today, you've decided to boycott everything I make for dinner. It doesn't matter what I prepare, it's revolting. And I'm a good cook! I understand I shouldn't complain since you both (especially Mikey) have been fantastic eaters for most of your life. But, frankly, no one has ever smacked my ass and called me "mature." Therefore, I feel somewhat entitled to bitch, whine, and moan. And so I shall. I will also take the time to dispense some advice.
- When I make chicken noodle soup from scratch, do not complain that it doesn't taste like "the other one." I know you all like Chicken Tortilla Soup. I didn't make Chicken Tortilla Soup. Consequently, shut your pie hole.
- When daddy decides to help me out the next night by making canned Campbell's Tomato Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, do not proclaim it's the best dinner you have ever tasted. I control the check book, and the check book controls Christmas. If you catch my drift.
- Do not change your taste overnight without telling me. This means, if you have liked roasted pork loin, potatoes, and sauteed cabbage until now, do not tell me you now think "it's really boring and awful" after I have spent 3 hours cooking enough pork loin to last us a month. Guess what? Your cute, tiny, fat free butt is going to be eating pork loin for the better part of a week in many, many different incarnations. Sucks to be you.
- KETCHUP IS A CONDIMENT!
- No, chips and ice cream will not make your stomach ache feel better. Don't ask, and quit pretending like you are on death's door.
You've been warned. Sit down at the table, eat your dinner, then call me the best cook ever. I don't ask for much, do I? Just a little appreciation, is all.
I'm still debating how to coerce you into doing my bidding, so I'll have to get back to you on that one. I'd threaten you with Hamburger Helper, but I think you'd like it, you sick, sick, children.