The Dinner Battle

Last updated on: March 21, 2021 at 9:38 pm by Sherry Antonetti

The Dinner Battle 2021-03-21T21:38:01-04:00 Sherry Antonetti

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I OUGHT TO KNOW BY NOW, THE PREMISE ALONE DOOMED ME…
To make life easy on a Thursday, I brought home two quarts of gumbo and a pound of brisket for dinner. A phone call took me from the kitchen and when I returned, two of my sons asked, “What are the rest of you having?” Scrambling eggs for some and making some pasta and meatballs for those left behind, one child begged for frozen waffles. A toasted makeshift eggo dinner later, my other son felt left out and more waffles found their way to the plate. One child gave up meat and opted for PB&J, while another complained about the original diners eating up the planned dinner.

Mind you, my husband and I had yet to eat.

Unrepentant, the two best fed tried to gin up support for ordering a pizza. They tempted the Lenten non meat eater with the allure of a large cheesy pie. Two of my daughters came in, spied the pasta and remembered, we had sauce in the frige and popped it on the stove.

IF I’D SAID LET’S DO LEFTOVERS…YOU KNOW THERE WOULD HAVE BEEN HOWLS OF MISERY…

What had begun as a “I’ll make dinner easy for me” by bringing something home, had morphed into this will take two runs of the dishwasher plus some hand scrubbing afterwards meal. The vegetarian made her enterance and mashed some guacamole to go alongside her toasted quesadillas and pico di galo. A call from the boyfriend and she took the results of her cooking with her for an impromptu meal, leaving gifts for the scullery maid. I wanted to both solve the problem and plot revenge.

REVENGE IS BEST SERVED COLD, THE BEST REVENGE IS SWEET…REVENGE IS ICE CREAM…

All of this mess led me to ponder where we’d gone wrong. We use paper plates. I plan meals. We rotate dish washers and chefs and still, ultimately, still find ourselves at the end of the day bussing the table from a party to which we weren’t invited. We’ve tried chore charts, allowances, lectures, all sorts of deals. I felt tired of planning and clean up from the party, without the benefit of cake, party favors or ice cream….ice cream….hmmmmmm.

My husband did the dishes. I wiped the table and cleared away the food. “Be right back.” I said. I took my purse and left, driving to the local ice cream shop. Coming back with a terrific three scoop fudge sunday with all the trimmings, I sat at the table with my husband and ate.

“Wow!” –said the ten year old.
“Where did you get that?” The sixteen year old asked.
The thing was too big for me, but we ate it anyway.
“I got it.” I said, not explaining more.
“It sure looks good.” Word is spreading through phones, discord…kid telepathy.
“It is.” their father said. More bites.
“Can I have some?” The twelve year old asks.
“It was a reward.” I took another big bite.
“For what?” one asked.
“For doing the dishes.”
“Can I have some?” –more than one asked.
“There aren’t any dishes to do.” The sixteen year old is hoping for ice cream for nothing, treats for free. Not happening.

“I know….But I needed a reward before tackling the laundry…” My husband gave them a visual clue, looking over at the pile.

HIS JEDI MIND TRICKS ARE STRONGER THAN MINE…

They sat there. The silence lingered as the creamy cold ice cream goodness started to melt. The laundry lay in a heap, daring them to put two and two together. I’d either be sick and still have to fold, or they’d fold and everyone would win. This was the showdown in the Antonetti Corale, with the stakes being higher than the piles that needed sorting, or the ice cream tower that was slowly losing altitude. All I needed was to stay strong against the weakest one…I tried the commercial approach and scooped hot fudge with vanilla and slowly savored the cleaning of the spoon.

The soft serve hard sell overpowered the defenses of my ten and twelve year old…the more battle hardened probably could have held out if those two hadn’t weakened. The going rate for four loads of laundry is a banana split –who knew? Now, I also knew the solution to my intitial problem, and left a bill with the original thieves of the brisket and gumbo –the cost of eating my dinner, doing everyone else’s dishes for the next week. They must have experienced remourse because they agreed, but evidently not regret. They texted back a request.

“Next time, can you get three quarts?”

Next time we do take out, I’m going to hide the food so they don’t take it out until everyone is present. I’m also going to remember, when everyone’s home, think superlocusts whenever there’s food, and call my husband out to the car so we can eat what we want before bringing it in the house.

It may be only a symbolic victory on my part, because I still must bribe all these people with food, but I’ll take it.

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