Rarely do I prepare a dinner that appeals to all four of us. Obviously, I always like what I cook. Typically, Brian will eat what's in front of him--or at least tolerate it. Daughter 2 is not so picky, but she's learning to play around in the kitchen, so she's taken to fixing her own meal.
Then there's Daughter 1.
God love this child. I prayed that she would be a strong child; I accept full responsibility, but she does want what she wants.
She'll never refuse pasta. She won't eat red meat, except for pepperoni. She doesn't like peanut butter, but she loves Nutella. She'll eat tilapia five nights a week and chicken, preferably in the form of a nugget, when she can.
Last night, however, she surprised me. I was cooking our dinner--chicken fajitas--and I was trying to remember the last time I had actually cooked a meal. Between the arrive of softball season and Oklahoma Writing Federation and a little show I co-produced, I'd driven through McGaggles exactly 392 times. The converse of that is that I had done no dishes since Spring Break. It felt good to prepare a meal for my family. I stood at the stove, stirring the veggies for our fajitas, happily tired from the weekend's events. I may actually have been asleep at the gas burner.
Enter Daughter 1.
"Momma," she began, "I don't like fajitas, but I checked out the fridge and your leftovers look really good. Can I reheat those up?"
It could have been the exhaustion, but I got tears in my eyes at the thought of making something that the pickiest of eaters wanted to eat more of. With a lump in my throat and a swelling in my heart, I nodded my head and gave my approval for my first-born to eat leftovers--my leftovers.
Smiling, she opened the fridge and pulled out the leftover KFC.