The bulk of my culinary repertoire is based on food I grew up eating as a girl of Irish/German/English heritage in the heart of PA Dutch country. I am gradually expanding my catalogue, but sometimes the fridge grows bare (shopping day is tomorrow), and one must improvise. Mister can be a picky eater at times. Things need to be made the way he grew up eating it.
Tonight, I was prepping sausage, because I was going to make sausage with sauteed onions, and pierogies. Mister walks into the kitchen, wrinkles his nose, and sighs.
“Sausage..” he said glumly. I breathed out evenly, quietly, as I grew irritated. He went back into the bedroom to lay down, and I chewed the inside of my cheek as I cooked. I nixed the onions and instead made carrots. I then pulled one of those Bird’s Eye skillet steamers (Cheddar, Chicken, & Potato), and angrily tossed it in my saucepan. Once the dinner I made for the girls and I (sausage and pierogies) was done, and Mister’s dinner was done, I called everyone to the dinner table.
“Oh you made pierogies.” Mister said. I remained silent. I figured, better to say nothing than to pick a fight. But boy did I ever want to pick one. I merely nodded. He tried again.
“If I had known you were going to make pierogies…” his voice trailed off and I shrugged. What I really wanted to do was snap at him “Well, maybe if you hadn’t turned your nose up the second you saw I was cooking sausage you would have known what I was planning to make.”
Mister’s mother had regaled me with tales of having to cook two separate things for her husband and my Mister, but I always swore it wouldn’t be me. “You eat what I make or you just don’t eat” had been my grandmother’s mantra and it was mine.
Tonight I caved and made two different things, and I will not do it again. I am not a restaurant, I am not a personal chef, and if my girls see Daddy getting something different because he doesn’t want what Mommy made, then they too will want something different and that poop is just not going to fly with me.