I am done driving the chuck wagon. I really am. Last night, I threw in the towel. I've decided that I do not enjoy cooking for kids.
Which is sad really, because in my heart I'm a "wanna be" Food Network star. Sometimes I practice when no one is home.
Over the past 15 years, my dreams have been dwindling because of the likes of this:
"What is that stuff????? I looks like sewage."
"I don't like my foooood to touchhhh!"
"Why are you making homemade rolls? We like Pillsbury!"
"You put ketchup on my plate, I haaaaaate ketchup!"
"Why can't you just be a normal mom and make Kraft Macaroni and Cheese?"
"This tastes like a Barbie doll dunked in chlorine." (My daughter actually said that to me. It's a classic quote at our house now.)
This week my refrigerator was stocked with leftover goodness -- scones, chocolate trifle, flank steak, chicken crepes, fruit, lemon curd . . . you name it, it was in there.
But, every time someone opened the refrigerator door, I heard
"Maaaaaan, when are you going to the store, there's NOTHING to eat in here!"
I give up. It's time to start buying cans. Lots and lots of cans.