Having read Trick or Tract and the virtual firestorm of comments it engendered, I can't resist injecting a little levity into the chorus. Maybe that's because I have a warped sense of humor. Maybe that's because October 31 isn't "Halloween" at our house. Instead, today is son number three's 12th birthday. Thus, "Halloween" has never been a big deal for our family - although "Broccoli and Bligh" put in regular appearances!
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Think Captain Bligh had it rough? Try feeding four Guys. The usual drill goes something like this:
“Pears?!” five year-old Josiah erupts as we sit down to the dinner table, “I hate pears!”
“Whatever happened to a simple, `No thank you’?” I snap, out on a limb. Way out. This follows 12 year-old Nathan’s commentary on last night’s dinner accompaniment: “Peaches? Yuck!”
“You know I don’t like mashed potatoes,” 14 year-old Daniel laments. Pointing out that French fries are close cousins to mashed potatoes—sort of--gets me as far as a snail in a molasses factory.
“Look,” I explain for the umpteenth time, “ I am NOT cooking five separate dinners. You guys either eat what’s on the table, or you may be excused and can go hungry until breakfast.” They’re out the door and halfway to China before the dust settles.
Our bedroom is located a few feet off the kitchen, near the pantry: “All the easier to snag ‘em with,” I muse to my husband, the Big Guy. Long experience has taught us what’s sure to come. Refusing my latest culinary magnum opus, our guy quartet will soon attempt a “midnight raid” on the kitchen. “All in good time, my pretties, all in good time.”
So we’re ready. The Big Guy and I snicker like frisky teenagers as we draw bicycle chain through fridge doors and click the lock shut. “That’ll teach them to eat what’s on the table” the Big Guy observes, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I suspect he’s having way too much fun outsmarting the kids.
“Midnight and all’s well” I announce later from sentry duty at the fridge before returning to Better Homes and Gardens. The Big Guy nods smugly and returns to the toe-tapping tunes of Gregorian Chants: Greatest Hits. Which just shows you what we know. What four starving boys can accomplish with a hairpin and flashlights makes my head spin.
“So, what are your favorite foods?” I ask my Guys the next day, bracing myself. I know a mutiny when I’m up to my ears in one. I’ve got a four-alarm insurrection on my hands that makes Fletcher Christian look like a pansy.
Eager choruses of Guy suggestions assail me in response: “Lime jello. Top Ramen. Macaroni and cheese! Peanut butter and jelly!”
Be still my gourmet heart.
While we’re on the subject of food and armed insurrections, whoever decided to wed “linen” and “tablecloth” in a house full of guys should be keel-hauled. Ditto formal silver service.
“Hey Mom,” Nathan inquires—munch, crunch, chomp--“what’re these little silver forklets for?” Wipe, snort, belch. Well. I see that all my instructions in Table Etiquette, Balanced Diets and Nutrition are reaping rich dividends.
For example, what do you think my Guys did to the Mango Broccoli Salad with cashews, red onion and mandarin slices served on chilled salad plates? That sweet little Salad Nicoise with the honey and Dijon dressing? Sugar Snap Peas with Orange-Ginger Butter? Apricot-Sauced Pork Medallions? And my attempt at serving Muffuletta? Just hearing the word was enough to send Nathan screaming from the room.
Get real. We’re talking Guys here. As in, “If I can’t eat it with my fingers, why bother?” Crunch, smunch, slobber.
“O.K.” son Sam says today, sidling up to the stove. Sherlock Holmes olfactory skills primed to perfection, Sam sniffs Cheesy Pizza Mac. Forget the Spinach-Stuffed Sole with Lemon-Chive Sauce or the Citrus Shrimp with Penne. My latest culinary concoction is Pure Guy: ground beef, macaroni, cheese, pepperoni and enough pizza sauce to choke the daylights out of any nutritional value that might be skulking around incognito.
“I’ll eat that,” Sam nods amiably, “except for the macaroni, the cheese, the pepperoni and that red saucy stuff…”
Pitcairn Island never looked so good.
I shouldn’t complain. Whenever I fuss about culinary mutinies, I think back to that infamous afternoon when our associate pastor and his family invited me and The Guys over for Sunday lunch. That poor parson never knew what hit him.
Prior to our entree into Uncharted Eating Realms, every Guy in my quintet was coached in proper Guest Behavior, Table Etiquette, Gentlemanly Decorum and a myriad of similarly futile indoctrination. (It seemed like a good idea at the time.) Between drills, the boys dutifully demonstrated their skills to perfection. The sigh of relief I heaved as we disembarked The Beast, our geriatric van, could’ve blown over the Sears Tower. Until we ambled into the parsonage.
An immaculate oaken door opened to an even more immaculate home. The furniture could’ve passed a White Glove Test with white to spare. Copper kettles and cookware gleamed from pristine perches amid an impeccably appointed room that looked more Smithsonian showcase than working kitchen. I felt faint. Surveying the impending disaster with the Big Guy I hissed, “Do you think it’s too late to disavow the birth certificates?”
It got worse. Pristine china, sparkling water goblets and spotless silver service adorned a dazzling dining room like plumage on a peacock. A gentle breeze refracted sun off the Waterford crystal. A dainty bouquet of Dutch irises reclined over a blue silk tablecloth upon which reposed a veritable legion of Mango-Broccoli Salads with cashews, red onion and mandarin oranges. On chilled plates.
“Do these people have kids?” I gulped as the Big Guy and I tiptoed into a hall closet the size of Rhode Island and divested ourselves of coats, sweaters, and small children.
“Yes,” my intrepid husband replied, “four girls.”
Forget Pitcairn Island. I’m hopping the next flight to Mars.
