I wanna stop cooking. I swear, I want to hire a cook that makes food for me and then makes food for the others.
I made tacos the other night---fried the shells and everything like old times. The only other adult in my home came in from work and said, "Guess I'm eating a burger!" and went to the freezer to get the patty.
I just decided to give up last night when my niece and nephew were here for dinner and made fried chicken. Nothing wrong with that, right?
Dear Sir: "I was so glad to see that you made fried chicken out of wingettes." Yes, it gets that picky. Even to the point of what kind of chicken.
My niece and nephew: "We don't like bones."
I pulled the meat off of the bones for them and they liked it all ok.
This morning I made pancakes.
My niece: "I don't like burned pancakes, Aunt Rachel."
I let my pancakes get nice and brown because I think when they get crispy on the edges they taste better. At least that is how I have always made them. I don't like doughy stuff.
Now, my nephew actually did get a burned one (I always mess up one pan) and he ate the whole thing and smacked his lips. Never know what kids will eat.
I am coveting because I asked a friend if her husband was picky since she was making a zucchini casserole and other things that I could never dream of making in my entire life.
She said, "Oh, I could make boiled water and he would sit down and drink it up and say, boy, this is good!!!"
I think Dear Sir would do well going into a concentration camp for picky eaters. They could serve him beetles and grass and then he could come home starving, ready and willing to eat anything that resembles real food.
I remember one day he came home starving from some event or potluck where they had NOTHING Dear Sir would put a fork to. I mean, that's bad people. Real bad. And I don't mean bad because they had nothing he would eat, but bad because he would eat nothing they would serve. So, I don't know how it happened but there was not much ready made once we got home except left over apple pie from the day before. I have been known to make a pretty decent apple pie in my time (I don't do any of that much anymore). The man will not eat it. Cooked fruit, or some crazy reason like that. Anyway, he walked by it and smelled cinnamon, apples, and other spices and he went wild with hunger. "That smells really good, Rach. Get me a slice of that."
I almost fell over and died. Just bury me already, I was that shocked. I could barely cut the piece, my hands went numb. He is going to try a piece of apple pie. This is a dream, this is not real. What wickedness the mind plays on us. But, in reality, the man tried it, liked it, thanked me (ate the whole blasted piece), and has never touched a piece since.
I know, I am always gnawing on this old bone. Oh, woe is me, no one eats my food. Well, they do, but I can't be free in this area. I have to make the same junk over and over and even that isn't good enough. I can make just about anything, I am that gifted my friends (and you know, I am not even saying this with pride, as you can see, I have been humbled to the dust), but I have just given up. I don't really even try anymore. I don't think when I bring something to someone's house that I am talented anymore. I just bring it, slap it down on the counter, and think, maybe someone else will like this slop. I know my family won't eat it. And get this, when we do go to potlucks, Dear Sir and the kids count on ME to bring something they WOULD eat. So I am trapped into making mediocre meat and potatoes kind of junk no matter what I do. I do rebel though because I get mad about it. When I do this someone always says, "Well I guess I'm not eating anything today!" Like I was their only hope.
I know, you say, just don't do it. Make whatever you want. Yeah, I could. But the man can live on saltines and hot dogs. I have tried it. My desire for their health is stronger than my desire to make what I want. I eat powerbars a lot. I like them better than the food I make around here.