Ok, so I complained a bit. Sorry about that. I feel guilty. But I still have rant in me, believe it or not.
It is just sort of like pulling out that same piece of gum though, day by day and chewing on it---being expected to enjoy it. I had had it once I pulled out those same chicken breasts I always buy. I thought that I would be daring and put teriyaki sauce on them. Then I made some pasta (only three people in my fam will eat that happily) and went all Italian all in the same meal, and put some basil, romano cheese, garlic salt, and tomatoes in it. You can probably guess how many people ate that. I have left overs.
I guess some day I will just tire of the whole thing and make enchiladas. The Oldest would eat it, and of course, I would eat it, but no one else would. Dear Sir would shove it to the side or not even sit down and say, "Guess I'm having a bowl of popcorn!"
I hardly ever get angry for too long, but I am still a bit peeved by this. I think it is because I am still expected to make meals when I just realize I am only warming things up, putting the crap on plates, and getting people drinks. I am the kitchen version of Vanna White. Back and forth, getting napkins, grabbing condiments, placing forks on the table. I know, I know, the kids do help. But what do I have to do? Cook, you say? No, I don't cook. I get things hot or warm. I make wonderful green beans, straight from the freezer. I make delightful pasta, straight from the box. I even get all generous and sprinkle a bit of salt and drizzle a little olive oil on it. I cut potatoes in half, put them on a cookie sheet spread with olive oil and salt and then bake them. I put chicken wings or breasts on the grill and put KC Masterpiece on them.
I am a great cook, I say, but I don't do it. Ever.
Ok, that felt better. I am not going to say that my kids are the problem either. They are not. I know that I must be part of it. I mean, I can make kids eat anything. I can. I am pretty good at that. I just won't SAY who I can't make eat anything. Process of elimination. And it is not me.
My friend L. told me the other day that she has been eating so well lately. She said to me, "Rachel, Um, please excuse my description, I know this might hurt your feelings but, I eat an avocado and tomato sandwich nearly every day."
Good grief, the picture in my mind of the food she was describing was too much for me to bear. I was so jealous. An avocado about now would kill me, I have no resistance to it.
So I have a picky man who eats the plainest of things and then I have me, who can only eat a few raw things and that is it.
I admit that this past weekend I was a bit upset because Dear Sir ate eggs at a breakfast we went to for the wedding. "You will eat her eggs, and you won't eat mine!" I said when we were walking to the car.
"The thing is, Rachel, I don't have to eat your eggs."
I could have slugged him.
I make really good eggs.
I really wanted to bite him, I was a little mad, but then again, he is raw and I would have probably had an allergic reaction.