I know what I’m making for supper tonight. Only problem, as any parent knows, the minute you have a great idea for a meal, it is imperative to entertain the reality of that situation – that you’re the only one excited about it currently and forever.
You’ll slave away, making the perfect grilled cheese from Bongards sandwich cheese and Kwik Trip white bread. You’ve perfectly popped open a few tomato soup cans, heated the contents on the stove, lovingly stirring in whole milk, a little bit at a time, so as not to curdle the stuff.
Then, once everything is ready, the piping hot sammiches and soup hit the table, meeting the turned up noses of your kids. Sure, they’re grateful little wretches when you half-ass a meal, but the moment you put time into it, they have this weird little radar, causing them to conspire with their siblings to make Dad feel like shit.
But I do it anyway on that happenstance day where they inhale a meal and then, with mouth full of food, look at me with shining eyes and declare, “Daddy! This is the best meal ever! Your the best dad in the world!” (Being young yet, I assume they butcher “you’re” in speech, as well as written text).
And then I go run for President and tell everyone, “I know foods. I have the best foods!”