Last night I made a fancier dinner than usual. Which means that the kids hated it a bit more than usual. Which is hard because they usually hate dinner, so to hate it more means they really, really hated dinner.
I made a dish called Chicken in Puff Pastry. It was cubed chicken mixed with cream cheese, watercress, green onions, and butter wrapped in a pastry crust. My enthusiasm was good when I started making dinner, but my heart had sunk long before I finished the dish. I just knew they were going to hate it. While all the ingredients were things they like (well, maybe except the watercress and onions), they weren't going to appreciate them all mixed together. Unless the chicken is chunked, breaded, and then cooked, I'm unlikely to get a positive reception.
Usually I don't let it bother me too much. Usually I make them eat a bite or two and then they can get down. But last night it bothered me. I pouted. I glared. I complained. "Why can't you just try it? Not just a nibble of the crust, but actually take a bite out of the center and see if you like it?" "You are hurting my feelings" I said. "How would you like it if you worked for an hour on something and I couldn't find one nice thing to say about it?" I was irked.
Hubby invited to me to take a little personal time and soak in the tub. It was a generous gesture that benefitted the whole family, I think. While I was in the tub soaking (& sulking), he came in and showed me what the kids had been doing.
How can I be mad when they make me a big poster that says "Sorry we don't eat your food"? Sure...they aren't suggesting that they are going to make any changes, but at least they care that I feel bad, right?
P.S. I thought maybe that scribble on the right was their representation of my dinner, but they assured me it was just Cade's contribution to the poster.