Can someone please tell me what is so dang revolting about mashed potatoes and gravy?
Please.
Fill me in.
Because I need to know.
Not knowing the answer to this question, makes my life a living hell when I prepare it for dinner and place it in front of Emily.
A living hell, I tell you.
Last night.
It's hotter than ... well, let's just say hotter than hot. I knew that a storm was going to pass through soon, cooling things down, so I refrained from switching the air conditioning on. Hey, every penny saved ... is a penny I can spend.
So anyway, we hadn't eaten "real" dinners in a month, at least. With baseball, football and soccer ... we were always grilling hot dogs or throwing chicken nuggets in the oven ... and I was beyond sick of it. We were all home last night, so I was going to make a normal dinner for us to sit down and enjoy together. I know, I should know better.
It was BBQ chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn and rolls. Simple enough. Nothing that leaves the ingredients a mystery for the little people running around this house calling me Mom. Right?
Let's go back to where I was telling you how hot it was. It was hot as I slaved over a boiling pot of potatoes in front of an oven browning my rolls, as I stirred the gravy that I managed to create with no lumps. It was all done and my children were called in to take their place at the table while I served them.
Yes, I was serving them. You'd think they'd be happy.
NO!
Every single stinkin' one of them complained when they saw what I had compiled for supper. However ...
Jake ate all of his after the initial complaint.
Molly cleared hers after she realized it was all good.
Drew waited until the last 30 seconds that he had when I threatened him that the plate would be taken away and there would be no going back outside, and then he shoved it all in his mouth at once to the point he couldn't chew ... and I had to sit and watch him gag 10 times as I came to terms that this was actually a child I helped create and gave birth to.
And then there was Emily. Oh yes, sweet sweet Emily. She sat in her seat as cute as can be. The fork and spoon beside her continued to rest neatly on the napkin tucked under her plate. She looked at me with a glare that let me know she was ready for the fight that was about to begin.
I tried to reason with myself, to just let it go. Don't argue with a four year old. But, there was nothing I wanted more than to pick up these creamy mashed potatoes with my bare hands, borrow the jaws of life from the local volunteer fire department to pry her little mouth open and shove them down her throat myself.
NOTHING.I.WANTED.MORE.
I envisioned this in detail as I stared at her, staring at me.
That was good enough for me.
And I began to smile.
Then she began to cry as I picked up her plate and carried it to the sink, not engaging in the argument she obviously wanted.
A trip up to her room for an early bed time worked out as a win win for me, but I still don't know what is so awful about mashed potatoes and gravy.
Maybe I would have learned that if I would have gone to college too. Huh? Damn.
