The Cuisinart now sits on the counter top useless. A small plastic piece of the lid snapped off sometime after I made dinner last night. Specifically, after I tried to get fancy. I suspect sabotage.
The “offending” side dish to an otherwise delicious, family-tested and approved meal was corn fritters. I hadn’t made them in a few years, as last time my kids didn’t like them much. But seeing as the kids were now a mature eight and 10 years old, I happily pulled out both the recipe and the Cuisinart and began creating. An hour later, lots of “Eews” and “What are these?” greeted the results.
The unpopular fritters followed fresh on the trail of my chicken cobbler the previous night. Oh, I knew I was tempting fate with that one. But I didn’t care. It was a scrumptious combination of shredded cooked chicken, fresh mushrooms, sautéed onions, white wine, and fresh herbs, topped with homemade croutons sprinkled with parmesan and butter, baked till brown.
Cobbler as a dinner instead of dessert? What a concept. The kitchen filled with amazing aromas as it cooked. But my kids nervously asked me repeatedly throughout the prep and bake time, “What’s for dinner?” as if the answer would change if they just asked enough times. I thought the word “cobbler” would appease them a bit. They kept getting hung up on the “chicken” portion.
My husband loved the meal (or has become very good at lying in a noble effort at keeping the chef happy). My kids? Honestly, I had to count to 10 when I watched them scrunch up their noses and ask annoying questions like, “What’s in this?” and “Is this a… mushroom?!”
You’d think it was liver.
Every few months I think, surely now their taste buds have matured and they’ll realize that something along the lines of chicken cobbler or corn fritters are a treat, something to look forward to, not bemoan. I hold my breath as I serve meals and hope, “Please let that day be now.”
My son’s taste buds might not be maturing as quickly as I’d like; but he is, a bit. He’s matured enough to be polite, at least, no longer acting as though every unappetizing meal is my attempt to poison him. He’ll eat his dinner, trying not to grimace too much. An hour or so later, when he’s finally finishing up, he’ll say, “Thanks, Mom. That was not too bad after all.”
My daughter will just stare at her “gourmet” food in utter disgust, take a miniscule bite, and then declare herself suddenly, totally and completely full. We now just excuse her from the table and tell her no bread, no cereal, no anything if and when she decides she’s really quite hungry later… except for her dinner. Which will be patiently waiting for her.
And unlike Max’s meal in Where the Wild Thing Are, it won’t still be hot.
The kids weren’t sad to see the Cuisinart rendered useless. But tonight I’ve got a craving for Moroccan lamb patties, and there’s no “processing” required.