If you’ve ever had to feed kids, you know a story just like this one.
For Sunday dinner I made the boys roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. I went to the extra trouble to make the gravy from scratch because store-bought gravy is always likely to turn at least one of them against me.
History said I should have an easy time selling this meal. There aren’t many meals that somebody won’t complain about, but this one should have been in that small set they all could live with.
Except History can be turned upside down by a seemingly innocuous event.
While I was mashing the potatoes, I added some cheese, like I do every time. Big Brother happened through the kitchen and saw this. The sight left him aghast. Apparently, he has never seen me mashing potatoes before.
“Ewww! You’re putting cheese in the potatoes! That’s gross!”
I explained that all the mashed potatoes he’s ever eaten had cheese in them. I was not convincing. These potatoes were tainted. Little did I know, it was not only the potatoes.
Buster had overheard the cheese kerfuffle, but not necessarily the specifics of it. After the first taste of his gravy, he grimaced. “This gravy tastes like it has cheese in it!”
For the record, I did not, nor do I ever, put cheese in the gravy. Also for the record, these kids love cheese.
I reassured him there was no cheese in his gravy, but my words were futile against the evidence provided by his discriminating tongue and suggestible subconscious.
Dinner proved to be a struggle, with only Big Man willingly eating his food, because he didn’t care if it had cheese as long as it tasted good.
On Monday, I gave us all a break and fed them grilled cheese sandwiches. Nobody complained about the cheese.
We still had leftover roast and potatoes to eat and by Tuesday I was up for another try. As I was warming it, Buster made a skeptical request to taste the gravy so he could go to full Battle Stations by the time I put his food in front of him.
He took a tiny taste and proclaimed. “This tastes like it doesn’t have any more cheese in it.”
Thank goodness for our cheese-absorbing fridge.
Big Brother overheard. “There’s not any cheese in this one?” he asked, meaning the leftover potatoes.
“No,” I replied, not really lying, because the conversation was actually about the gravy.
Nobody complained. Half way through dinner, Big Brother declared: “I would rate this food five stars.”
“What about last time you had it?” I asked, wondering if I should hug him or put him in a head lock.
“Not even one star. Half a star.”
I guess my dinners get better with age. Maybe it takes time for all that nasty cheese to settle out.