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Browsing Tag: family dinner

Tough Crowd

We’re in the car (again, always), heading home from school. Saoirse asks me what we’re having for dinner.“Quesadillas,” I say. “Tomatoes. Avocados.” They don’t need to know that I’m going to gourmet the shit out of those quesadillas. Or that those beautiful red and orange tomatoes ripening on our counter will turn into the simplest, best pico de gallo ever. You’ll see why. I can hear the children groan, quietly, in the back seat. “Avocados?!” says Cian. “YUCK.” “Thank you, buddy,” I reply. I forget that toddlers don’t compute sarcasm until he reminds me. “NO,” he says. “I said yuck.” They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m wondering at what point my children will learn that the way to their mother’s heart is just to be quiet and eat whatever gruel she puts in front of them. Because, apparently it’s gruel. The avocados, I mean.   &nbsp…

Good Thing She Doesn’t Eat Hamburger

We were at the dinner table. “Mom, look at the geese!” Saoirse suddenly exclaimed.  She pointed out the window to a flock flying over our house, causing Quinn to gasp at all the excitement.  “I love the birds.” She paused, forking another heaping mound of chicken taco chili into her mouth. “Mom?” Saoirse asked.  “Do people eat birds?” I watched her, chewing happily, then looked at Quinn, who was shoving forkfuls of the chili and rice into her mouth at an alarming rate. “Um,” I said, stalling. “Do you mean birds that fly?” “Yeah!” “Um.” I swallowed. “Some people do,” I said.  “Eat birds that fly.  I don’t, though.  I don’t eat birds that fly.” “Uck.  That’s GROSS.” She took another bite of her chili, content with her analysis. “Well, you know…” I decided to continue, already feeling a little guilty that David wasn’t home from work yet to witness this conversation–or stop me from where I was leading it.  “…chicken’s…

Battle of Wills

The scene: We’re at the dinner table, Sunday night. We’ve settled down around a meal of take-out Italian, because, unlike the Norman Rockwellian family that gathers together over pot roast and mashed potatoes on Sunday, the idea of washing that many dishes is overwhelming this evening, so we beg the pardon of Mother Earth and dive in to our plastic containers. Please don’t judge us. Desperate times call for really bad environmentalism. The characters: David, quietly drinking his beer. Me, sort of drinking my own beer while sniveling unattractively through a haze of autumn hay fever. Quinn, actually sucking the cheese out of her ravioli, then, before we can stop her, throwing the pasta carcasses over the back of her high chair for the dog to catch. She’s happy, though, so that counts for something. Saoirse, meanwhile, is pitching a fit. A full-on, whiny, moaning, crying fit. The conflict: Saoirse wants bread. She has requested chicken tenders. (Yes, this former full-on vegetarian who only buys organic food for her family has fallen headfirst into the modern American fast-food trap, so chicken tenders it is. Stop the judgment, already…