A Pattern of Words

V wanted to know the other day if I cook elaborate breakfasts because I enjoy them. My snort of incredulity took him by surprise; he had no idea why his question was so funny. At this stage of life, there are very few times I enjoy any stage of meal cooking – let alone breakfast, which I don’t even eat most of the time. I dream of the day that children don’t walk into the kitchen and immediately moan “NOOOoooo, I won’t eat THAT.” (ironically enough, I wouldn’t actually label my kids as picky eaters at all. But comments always have to be made regardless of whether they plan to eat it or not). I dream of the day I don’t have to listen to endless soliloquys made by my offspring describing the repugnancy of smells, distastefulness of textures, and litany of foods they’d like to ban. Currently, they agree, the only food they’d like served are French fries and pancakes. V – who usually eats his dinner in solo, blissful silence long after the dishes have been washed and the kids have vacated the room…doesn’t quite get it. His experience of family meals are (in my opinion) mostly joyful Saturday mornings, lazy and full of whipped cream, or else weekend takeout, involving little prep and much excitement. By the weekend I’m over it and struggling to plan, or else crockpotting something easy-ish. Do I sound bitter? Maybe. I’m sure he’d be able to write a lengthy complaint about his early morning commute, late evenings of endless paperwork, and how I get to sleep in on Fridays.

A friend was recently discussing her inability to organize her kids’ rooms and her desire to just spend all her time in the kitchen, making bread and homemade stock and delicious casseroles. I told her she really should have moved to the same city as me, that way she could cook for both of us and I could spend my time blissfully organizing both our houses. It would have worked nicely.