When people lament over gross food from their childhood, I think mine may take the cake.
My kids don't have a fucking clue.
They complain if there are less than 10 breakfast options.
Take out?
I got that shit like twice a year!
Sometimes I want to drop them over a foreign country where they need to walk ten miles to get a water source and have to literally hunt for their dinner.
Any ways.
My parents were foodies, before that was even a thing.
My mother loved to try new recipes and was truly a wonderful cook, truth be told.
There were a few exceptions.
One being that a very memorable time when she tried a recipe with gorgonzola cheese, and upon entering the house, my father and I both checked our shoes as we pointed fingers jumping up and down all the while accusing each other of stepping in dog poop.
Nope, turns out that was the smell of a fancy NYT dinner recipe.
Needless to say, that was one of about ten times in my Jersey childhood, we ordered pizza.
My parents were Midwestern after all, where there was no such thing as pizza Friday.
We also never really did take out.
My mother cooked almost every meal we ever ate.
I relished Chinese takeout.
Dreamed about it.
That was our go to, if we ever did order.
I never ate much pizza growing up, so I can take it or leave it.
Feel free to start sending hate mail immediately.
The first time I had Chef Boyardee was in college, and I might as well have been gifted a vacation to Italy.
Anyways, I grew up in the burbs.
With true midwestern parents.
In a brick-and-mortar house.
Which my city friends called my country house.
It happened to be my ONLY house, but whatever.
20 minutes outside Manhattan.
We might as well have been Shangri-L9,a to my parents' musician friends trying to escape the big city.
Also, did I also mention my parents loved to entertain?
And did I also mention they had a live in servant?
Me.
I am not sure if it was the entertainer or the 1950s in her, but I swear my mom made the grossest appetizers on earth when they hosted dinner parties.
On a constant rotation were the following:
Camembert.
Brie.
Deviled eggs.
Pate.
If I was LUCKY, maybe she would spring for spanakopita.
Pigs in a blanket?
GTFO.
The only reason I can stomach cornichons, is because that was a standard accompaniment to pate and that was about the only thing I could bring myself to eat at these oh so elaborate dinner parties I had been staffed for.
Maybe if I was lucky, I would be able to sneak some Carr crackers on the sly, which were strictly reserved for the brie and camembert, that I was forced to pedal like a crack dealer.
I would like to take a minute and note that I was not paid a dime for any of my services.
I would also like to add I was super charming and cute.
"Would you like?"
"May I take this?"
"What would you like to drink?"
"Would you like to try this?"
FOR FREE.
But whatever.
Again, my kids have NO clue.
Last week, I had one child who shall remain nameless, refuse to eat dinner because the popcorn chicken wasn't crispy enough.
Wasn't motherfucking crispy enough.
HOLY SHITBALLS.
Have some pate kid.
Crackers NOT included.
Sidenote, I am also airlifting you, and then dropping you over a remote country, with no Wi-Fi, crispy popcorn chicken, OR water.
Good luck.
Then we can talk.
And you can complain.
Until then.
Xoxo,
C.
Comments