I used to like to cook.
Then I had kids.
Now every new recipe is like submitting my book to a literary agent. And though I was able to give up the submission process because of the revolution in self-publishing, I can’t do the same with my growing offspring.
I brace myself for rejection, knowing it is only the most predictable creation that will please. But not too predictable–oh no–then they’ll complain how desperately they want something new. Again, not unlike traditional publishing.
So, I’ve got a pile of thawed Costco tilapia filets in the fridge. There’s no going back now. I have to cook them. There are hundreds of great recipes I could try, yet I’m sitting here typing this because I dread the looks on my children’s faces, the frowny foreheads, the suspicion and disappointment. What, no barbequed hot dogs? No pizza? Not even pork chops?
It’s really only one of my children that’s difficult this way, so I’m being unfair. But it feels good to vent.
Hey, it’s my blog.
As I composed this post, I took a minute to make Difficult Eater a snack. Now when DE doesn’t eat the fish, neither one of us has to have a nervous breakdown about it. This breaks major parenting rules, I know, but hey…
It’s my house.
p.s. I think this is the recipe I’m going to try.