Speak Eagle

The Sober Reality of my Cooking

Sometimes we don’t quite know where we stand as a cook. Other times, it’s crystal clear.

Tonight, I set out plates of whitefish, quinoa, and broccoli and smile to myself. “What a truly wonderful mother I am, serving yet another healthy, delicious dinner to my family.” I light a candle and sit down, drinking in the beauty of precious loved ones gathered around a common table. We sing a prayer, thanking God for His abundant blessing.

After the melodious “Amen!” my redheaded second-born looks at his plate and wrinkles his nose, spouting, “I hate fish! Why do we have to eat fish?”

As expected, my conscientious first-born hands his brother a free ticket for a guilt trip with his quip, “You should be happy you have something to eat. There are starving kids in Africa, you know.”

The redhead doesn’t take the ticket. “Well, I’d rather eat pizza in Africa than fish here.”

Hmmmm. Something isn’t computing.

The first-born attempts to clarify. “Actually, in Africa they have to eat…rat.” I’m not sure where he has gotten his information, but decide to let the conversation play out.

“Would you rather eat rat…or Mommy’s fish?” He thinks the answer is obvious.

The redhead looks at his plate in the candlelight. “Rat.”

I am starting to wonder where I might be able to find one for him to sample.

Then, the first-born ups the ante. “Actually, in Africa they don’t even get to eat rat. They have to eat… rat guts.” And then comes the follow-up, “Would you rather eat rat guts…or Mommy’s fish?”

I hold my breath. It’s the moment of truth.

The redhead thinks for a moment, imagining the two choices laid out on his plate. He picks up his fork.

“Mommy’s fish.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. At least tonight I know where I stand. Somewhere in between rat…and rat guts. It could be worse. I think.

8 thoughts on “The Sober Reality of my Cooking”

  1. Another gem, Miss Heidi…

    Thanks for sharing life with us.

    (And not a single mention of Mom’s hockey pucks…errrr…I mean yummy biscuits).

    Dad P

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