I’m done Cooking
A few nights ago dinner could possibly be remembered as the night that mummy quit cooking.
Because I made chicken and rice, Billie-Violets favourite and a general no brainer, I added garlic and onion so that Bill didn’t get upset with the lack of flavour yet cut them up really finely to disguise the flavour because amongst other things Arlo hates flavour.
Arlo doesn’t like any fruit or vegetables except broccoli so broccoli is a given with every meal.
The twins can have rice for all I care.
Only Billie-Violet turned her fucking nose up at the chicken because it has “bits” in it, apparently I now need to blend onions and garlic, my kids are like sniffer dogs and veggies are cocaine. I point out to Billie-Violet how totally fucking odd it is that an animal lover would turn her nose up at chicken because it has garlic and onion in it…
I told Arlo that dinner was ready and he didn’t even look up from the IPad to see what I had made all he managed was the following pearls of wisdom
“I hate dinner”
Billie-Violet informed me that she no longer likes broccoli and she unwraps another Le snack from the cupboard.
Mean while my window to feed the twins in is slowly closing as they refuse to eat if they’re too tired, not tired enough, to hungry, not hungry enough, I race to them, they spit the chicken and rice out yet insist on trying mouthful after mouthful only to continuously spit it on the floor. Who’s the idiot here? It’s gotta be me.
By now Arlo is in full addict withdrawal mode over the idea of eating anything that simply is not ice cream.
2 hours of cooking, $40 worth of food and not one single mouthful in one of the little turds tummies.
I scoop up the rice from the floor and begin to eat it myself. Wtf? Because for some reason I think that it is more convenient to eat scraps then to dump them in a bin…If I’m going to gain a consistent 1kg a week could it at least be on something that I enjoy more then spat out dog hair covered rice.
Bill walks in, looks at dinner and managers the inspiring sentence “is that it?”
I poured myself a big fat straight vodka, adjusted the crown And haven’t cooked since.