What’s For Dinner?

You hear that sound? That clanging, clattering noise? That’s the sound of me throwing my hands up in the air in sweet surrender. The clattering noise is from the pots and pans that were in my hands hitting the floor.

It’s dinner time again and of course, we’ve got a problem. What to eat, what to eat… Well, according to the chalkboard menu board that I have so cleverly painted on the wall of the kitchen, we are having tacos tonight. After all, I took the chopped meat out two days ago so that means tacos tonight, right? (As an aside, my husband does not approve of meat defrosted in the microwave, hence the inception of the menu board in the first place. That way, I know what we are planning on having a week in advance so that I can take the appropriate meat out at the appropriate time, least his delicate taste buds be offended by meat that may have been defrosted in *gasp* the microwave. After all, his mother never defrosted in the microwave. Also his mother didn’t work full time and have three picky as hell people to cook for, but I digress.)

Anyway, to answer that question, the answer is …WRONG! Just because we planned to have tacos for dinner, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. I’d just like to say that I try very hard to keep my family well fed and healthy. I am a terrible cook, but I make enough things well that alternating with my husband cooking (and take out), we can survive. The problem is planning is an absolute nightmare because PEOPLE IN MY HOUSE HAVE BECOME SO DAMN PICKY THAT THIS IS BECOMING IMPOSSIBLE! It nearly always blows up in my face.

This is just a sample of what happens nearly every single night without fail:

“What are we having for dinner?” Child #1 implores.

I point to the board.

“Tacos? Oh I love tacos!”

Yes. One down. (It falls apart right after this).

“What’s for dinner?” Asks Child #2. I point to the board and he nearly has a fit.

“But I had tacos for lunch at school!” He wails.

“Did you have other choices?” I ask.

“Well, yeah.”

“Then I don’t care,” I tell him. “Tacos have been on the board all week. Look at it before you leave in the morning. The rest of us aren’t going to revise our dinner plans to accommodate you.”

He sulks off in a huff.

“What are we having for dinner?” Hubby asks (because if I don’t tell him that he is actually cooking and practically lay out the ingredients for his incompetent ass, he has no clue…sorry honey, I love you, but it’s true).

“Tacos,” I reply.

He wrinkles up his nose. “I don’t feel taco-y tonight,” he tells me. (Without fail, someone doesn’t feel taco-y or salmon-y or chicken-y every night). “Unless we’re going to Taco Bell.”

I slam the package of meat down on the counter. “We are NOT going to Taco Bell!

“Ooo Taco Bell sounds good,” says Child #1.

I glower at her.  She was the only one on my side and I will not lose her now. “We are NOT having fast food. We are having tacos at home! Fast food is terrible for you! It clogs your arteries and you will have a heart attack before you’re old enough to drive. The meat is defrosted, there’s no reason we can’t have tacos.”

“Yes there is. I had tacos for lunch,” Child #2 pipes up.

“Oh well then it’s stupid for him to have them again for dinner,” hubby tells me. “We don’t want him eating the same thing twice in one day.” (Meanwhile the kid has six bowls of cereal a day and would eat pizza ten times a week if we let him). “Let’s just have tomorrow’s dinner tonight,” he suggests.

At the risk of sounding like a person on the verge of OCD hysteria, I shriek, “We are having tacos! The meat for tomorrow isn’t defrosted yet and if we have tomorrow’s dinner tonight, the meat from tonight will be bad. The board says tacos…we are having tacos damn it!” I slam the spatula down on the counter. I break the spatula. My family stares at me as if I am a mental patient.

We end up having Chinese food.

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