Mealtime has always been an adventure in our home. Usually, the conversation starts with an objection from one of the kids about what was being served. Angie is a first class cook, the envy of many a Jewish grandmother, but there was always one or more of our offspring that would offer their culinary critics about the quality of the food. It usually started with,
“Ewww! What’s that stuff?”
This would be accompanied by a face resembling a 3000-year-old mummy recently exhumed from their crypt after a particularly gruesome death.
“It’s your dinner, eat it.” would be my reply.
Sensing a possible revolt and an opportunity to maybe get something they really liked such as pizza, McDonalds, or anything else that kids consider gourmet dining, the other children would join in voicing their dislike of the healthy, balanced meal set before them.
“It looks gross!” another child would offer.
“I don’t like that stuff; it’s got red sauce on it!” adds another.
Some of Angie’s culinary feats did look rather disgusting but upon tasting the “manna” as we would call the less recognizable dishes (meaning in Hebrew – “What is it?”) one would find it very delicious. The hard part would be getting the kids to try it. I always set the lead and took a good bite. Four pairs of eyes would be locked on me as I chewed the suspicious material. They were surely waiting for me to fall over dead or have a seizure or something. I would inform them,
“It tastes great! Try it”
No takers. They would suspiciously eye the food on their plate, moving it around with their fork in search of something toxic or perhaps worse, something good for them.
About this time one of them would say “I’m not hungry.”
At this point of the game, the parents of these wonderfully obnoxious children would then be divided into two camps, just like the little terrorist planned. My camp would say,
“Great! Go to bed! I could use a night of peace and quiet! And I’ll save your portion for breakfast! See how you like it then!”
Of course, my obviously reasonable reply would be met with cries of protest and with tears pouring down their cherub like faces.
It often amazed me how these kids could turn those tears on so easily. Marisa could actually do projectile crying and extinguish a small wildfire on command.
Of course, momma bear, the inventor of this mayhem, would chime in,
“Derek! Leave them alone! You’re being mean!”
The children, sensing eminent victory would press home the attack with more tears and anguish while rushing into the open arms of the person who tried to poison them in the first place. Then momma bear would start making grilled cheese sandwiches or whatever else to satisfy her starving brood and keep them from the grips of apparent starvation as the theatrics was now at full power. Of course, I would respond with the time tested,
“When I was your age, I ate what was given me!”
This, of course, was a gross untruth if there ever was one as my brothers and I invented many dubious ways to dispose of unwanted meal portions. Peas would go into your milk, and you always left enough milk to cover them. The tricky part was that you had to take your own dishes to the sink, or your deception might be discovered just as this one was, and our solid-colored cups were replaced with clear glass cups to prevent any further smuggling of healthy food to the garbage disposal. Another useful device was the family dog. A hardly noticeable move of the hand and Butch had another healthy serving of liver. Of course, there was always the old reliable standby, hide the stuff under a stray piece of lettuce, a potato skin, placemat, or seat cushion.
My children would be by now rolling their eyes at the familiar story while at the same time basking in the glow of their victory as their mother would by now be serving the more palatable and less suspicious looking meal to them.
We would not consider a meal to have been successfully started without the required bickering session to whet our appetites. So, without further ado we will go on to the main course, dinner conversation.
I remember watching the television show “Leave it to Beaver” when I was a kid and if my memory serves me correctly the conversation went something like this.
“Well, Beaver, how did your day go at school?” asked June the mother who was usually dressed in an attractive dress complete with stockings, gloves and stylish hat.
“Swell mom” the equally well dressed, clean faced boy would politely reply.
“And what about your day, Wally?” asked Ward, the loving father in sport coat, tie, and well shined shoes.
“Golly Dad, it was great. The coach said I could be on the track team this year!” replied the respectful, kind, and considerate teenager.
I’m sure that this is the normal scene set in millions of households today as well. My household is slightly different.
First off, the dress code was a little less than the Cleaver family of the 1960’s television show. It usually consisted of momma bear wearing an attractive top decorated with bits and pieces of the evening’s culinary experiment. This would be followed by the hard working, long suffering, kind, gentle father figure still in his work clothes as he just got in from another long day only to be met at the door with a long list of the children’s criminal offences delivered by the stressed-out momma bear / warden. The children’s attire ranged according to age. Five years and younger would be mostly naked, only wearing whatever happened to not fall off during the last 30 minutes. Five to ten years of age would be almost normal but usually unmatched, often on backwards. The female teenagers varied according to mood. One minute bright and cheery and the next moment all black with the odd torn top or jeans that were the rage for that moment or whatever clothes they could steal from their father‘s dresser. The male teenagers could usually be smelled before they were seen due to overactive hormones and a lack of deodorant or bathing as they didn‘t have the time. You see, they were much too busy whacking wookies on their video games. The style, if you could call it that, would be a wrinkled t-shirt with some obnoxious saying or image on it accompanied by tattered jeans with holes in them, on purpose no less, these jeans appeared to have been attacked by a roving band of graffiti artists. The jeans as of late have been hanging down around the lower most region of the nonexistent buttocks of said teenager.
Conversation would be started by the father figure.
“Hey! Turn off that crap you call music and get over here for dinner!”
This would be followed by the usual grumbling or by no reply all due to the dreaded “deaficus instantainacus” syndrome that accompanies over stimulated sensory organs due to the sounds and graphics that were emanating from the latest video game / MTV show. When the rabble would finally be assembled the father figure would start off with a hopeful sound in his voice,
“So, how was your day today?”
This question was thrown out to no one in particular as he doesn’t know what the “mood” of the evening will be yet.
“Umph” would be the mumbled reply from one of the rabble.
“Great! Glad to hear it!” offered the hopeful dad.
“How was your day, dear?” he would direct to his bride.
Granted, he already knew due to the ever-present list of crimes related at his every return, but he was none the less hopeful for a positive reply.
“Oh, it was fine” she replied as her hand shook as she served up the meal.
“Ben flicked a booger on me!” one of the girls would offer angrily and then proceed to inform us that her brother resembled the south end of a northbound donkey, but not in such a polite manner.
This would start the rest up with their particular complaint about the other siblings.
“Buddy’s got a butt crusty” the youngest, Tristan, would offer.
This caused the momma person to inhale sharply and exclaim “Tris!”
Seeing this reaction only spurred him on.
“Ben streaked the neighborhood today too!!” he informed us.
Again, Angie gave her patented inhale and said “Ben!!”
That’s pretty much the extent of her replies to all shocking news that comes from the fruit of her womb. I, however, am unfazed as this would not be a normal dinner in our house if the subject of poop and naked didn’t come up during a meal. The unfortunate part is that this is also the case even if we have company over. Needless to say, we are very selective to the ones we allow to dine with our brood. Usually we invite a young couple over to eat with the family only if they have recently expressed a desire to have children. We consider it as an additional form of birth control for them so that they do not stray into the insanity of our world.