My husband, Justin, is a real lightweight when it comes to two things:
Spicy food and too late of a bedtime.
He works at 2:45 am every morning, and usually goes to bed by 6:30 pm because of it.
He can barely make it through taco seasoning without complaining and asking for a glass of water.
Of course, I tease him about this.
He dishes me out plenty of teasing, though. He can also take it.
This is why the other night I didn’t think anything of him starting to “Hasafasasasafasa” breathe his way through dinner.
It’s why I didn’t bat an eye when he asked me if there was something spicy in the food.
He asks me that often.
I rolled my eyes with my back still turned, thinking, “This guy again with his spices!”
I took a breath and turned around, telling him that if garlic powder and ginger were “spicy” to him, I’m going to need to talk with his Native ancestors about how exactly they walked over coals and outlasted the harsh winters.
Then my 14-year-old, Paige, started in, saying it WAS a little spicy,
And she asked the question I wish I got paid to answer in my motherhood:
“How much did she have to eat of it?”
I was positive at this point that she was just avoiding the vegetables.
She saw a fellow Dinner Avoider speaking up, and she saw it as her moment.
Clearly, she was jumping on the bandwagon because she saw a loophole for herself in it.
Friends, this was a dinner I have made so often:
Ginger and garlic teriyaki chicken over rice, with raw carrots, cucumbers, green onions, and avocado, and then sprinkled with everything but the bagel seasoning.
It’s absolutely delicious, and is a family favorite.
On this particular day, I hadn’t even wanted to cook it.
I have raised four daughters, and for 25 years I have listened to other people critiquing food I made that, frankly, I never wanted to have to make in the first place.
I am so burned out on thinking up what to cook for dinner every night that I had nearly just offered them all cereal.
Instead, I’d fought the little voice that likes to repeat words like “deli chicken tenders” and “pizza” and had sighed and gotten out my grill.
“It’s OK, Kerri. One dinner at a time. You can do this.”
Sometimes making dinner feels like the enemy.
Now, not only had I made them a delicious dinner, but it actually looked pretty professional if I do say so myself.
I had taken a picture of it.
My years of decorating cakes in a European Bakery gave me skills that apparently also work for drizzling sriracha mayo, which I had only put on my own, so I knew that wasn’t their issue.
When my two-year-old granddaughter, Mavis, suddenly said, “It’s hot,” my head swiveled like I was in The Exorcist. A record scratched. Every sound fell silent.
“You guys! NOTHING is spicy about this dinner! NOTHING. Rice, chicken, teriyaki sauce, sesame oil, carrots, cucumber, avocado, Everything But the Bagel Seasoning?!”
I named off the list like I was reciting it on a game show for a million.
Had they even looked at what I had handed them?
How could there be a complaint?! It was both beautiful and delicious!
I didn’t know what they were complaining about.
All I knew was that my perimenopausal patience could hardly take it.
Mavis! I thought we were best friends here!
She asked for water and an ice cube.
Surely they had made some kind of pact to get under my skin or something!
“I made this the same way I always make it!”
They could see that I was getting upset.
They all quieted down now and just ate it.
Justin *did* have a sweaty upper lip, and looked like he was struggling through a big plate of tandoori at an Indian restaurant.
It was pretty obvious he was holding in starting to tremble.
It was not until I was cleaning up that I looked down to see that
I had accidentally used my 19 year old daughter’s sesame oil instead of my own.
They had been side-by-side in the cabinet.
On her bottle, though, (same design, same basic label) was a big red bubble with the word
“HOT” on it.
I had coated the chicken in it.
That word burned into my retinas.
Being that I had just completely spiraled, named off the ingredients, and given a speech that I am positive they will always remember, I considered saying nothing, just slipping the bottle away quietly, and whistling as I faded into the distance: My little secret.
I could not do this, though.
I do have a conscience.
So, with a voice as powerful as a dying mouse, I mumbled,
“Oh. It looks like I used the wrong sesame oil.”
“What’s that?” Said Justin.
Darn it. He had heard me.
“I said, ‘It looks like I used the wrong sesame oil. This one does say ‘hot’ on it.”
Justin and Paige looked at me, clearly weighing out whether they should rub it in or,
based on the earlier display of my mental state, just stay quiet.
Remarkably, they chose to stay quiet and took more bites,
both finishing their dinner and saying nothing.
It could have been because they’d burned off the entire lining of their mouths, but, hey, dinner was served for one more night, right?
What do you know?
We live to fight another day!
Once again, we all survived it!
Mom Outnumbered
Hi! My name is Kerri Green; Wife to Justin, and mother to four highly entertaining daughters -Alena, Chloe, Tessa, and Paige. I am an artist, a writer, a daycare provider, a lover of people, a believer that there is humor and beauty in all things, and the author of Mom Outnumbered; a blog about real family life, and my observations of it. My goal is to make people laugh, to be there for them when they cry, and most importantly, to let them know that they are not at all alone in this up and down world. I live with my family in Sebastopol California, and I am opening the window into our life. So welcome! Come in. Sit down. Just please don’t mind the mysterious wet spots.
