I've got four daughters. I am reluctant to admit it, but I
have a favorite. Actually, I have two favorites. Although none of my daughters are my favorites, it's
my two dogs that I favor. Miniature, long-haired dachshunds—they garner most of
my attention and virtually all of my unconditional adoration.
There are many things to love about my soft, floppy canine
friends, but number one on my list is that they are ecstatic with literally anything I feed them. They
enthusiastically jump up and down and run in circles for their morning bowl of
dry kibble. They sit at my feet, looking at me adoringly, waiting patiently, as
I prepare anything in the kitchen. If
they occasionally get a slice of cucumber or a sliver of carrot, they are over-the-moon grateful. A small piece of meat? Forget about
it—they can hardly contain their appreciation.
My daughters on the other hand, require weeks in advance
planning to feed. Painstakingly taking into account who's eating what (vegan,
vegetarian, extra cheesy, hold the cheese, no beans, double steak), I try and
come up with something that everyone
will eat, possibly like, even. So far, in 15 years that has only ever occurred
three times. No kidding.
Here's how last night's pre-dinner conversations went:
(As I am unloading the dishwasher, making dinner, and
clearing backpacks off the kitchen table.)
8-year-old: What's for dinner?
Me: Grilled chicken, hash browns and broccoli!
8-year-old: Oh. I don't really like chicken. It makes me
Me: You're eight, not 78. How do you even recognize what makes
you gassy? Anyway, wouldn't it be the broccoli that gives you gas?
8-year-old: No. It's chicken.
Me: (sigh) I'll poach an egg to put on top of the hash
browns. You can have that and the broccoli.
(30 seconds later)
8-year-old #2 (identical twins): Whats for dinner?
Who hates hash browns? You are a kid, you are genetically programmed to LOVE all things fried.
Me: Grilled chicken, hash browns, poached eggs and
8-year-old #2: I hate hash browns.
Me: Who hates hash
browns? You are a kid, you are genetically programmed to LOVE all things fried. How about if I melt some cheese on the top of them?
8-year-old #2: Yes!
(47 seconds later, as the
kitchen begins to feel crowded)
15-year-old: Hey. What’s for dinner?
Me: Sweet Jesus!
15-year-old: Sweet Jesus? Is that Spanish?
Me: No. Grilled chicken, poached eggs, hash browns with
melty cheese and broccoli.
15-year-old: Hello? You know I don't eat cheese.
Me: Crap. Yes, no, you do not. I won't melt cheese on your
later, the 13-year-old enters)
Me: Here we go . . .
13-year-old: What's for—
Me: GRILLED CHICKEN, HASH BROWNS WITH OR WITHOUT POACHED
EGG AND MELTY CHEESE AND BROCCOLI!
13-year-old: I'm vegan now.
Me: Then, broccoli.
I pour a glass of wine (from the box I keep in the fridge),
drink half of it in one gulp then glance down to see my furry friends, their
tails quietly thumping on the floor, sweet eyes looking up at me. I fill their
bowl with dry kibble and they dig in—devouring it, unconditionally.
Here's how to grill a perfect chicken, as long as you're not feeding vegans.