My annoyance meter had been reaching its upper limit for the last two weeks. First, for the sprouts salad my 13 yr old boy made a face that said ‘yucks’. Next, tamarind poha was labeled ‘disgusting’. Finally when the lauki sabzi was called ‘gag worthy’ I lost it. He was clearly the only one having a problem with the food ‘cause the other members of the family were enjoying it. The problem with the boy is he has a problem with Indian vegetarian food. Give him chicken marinated in gobar (cow dung) and I know he’ll lick the last bits off.
As a house rule, I don’t accept food being called
bad. It is ok to not like something but you can’t call it bad. When you say you
don’t like it, it’s about you. When you say it is bad, it’s about the food. I
reprimanded him; told him he needs to be thankful for the food he gets. “Nah, I
don’t like it, so why should I be thankful? I’d rather make my own food,” he
replied. “Perfect,” I said.
I declared I wouldn’t be cooking for him till he apolagizes. He agreed. He would have to make his own lunch box and
dinner. He agreed. I told him the food he cooks would have to be healthy. He
agreed. I told him he had a 15 Dhs daily limit on the items he buys to make the
food. He argued, but thanks to his inflated ego, agreed.
Day 1: He woke up 15 mins early. He washed the grapes for
his fruit box and then went on to make his lunch. He kept it simple with a PBJ
sandwich. Not very healthy, I thought but let it be.
For dinner he made an omlette and grilled a hot dog.
He was so happy he didn’t have to eat the bhindi sabzi I made for everyone else.
Day 2: He woke up 25 mins early. Grilled 2 hot dogs, put
them in buns and air fried two hash browns. Washed and packed the remaining
grapes. “What’s for evening?” I inquired, “ I see no veggies yet on your menu.”
“I am going to make Brocolli chicken pasta,” he gave a
confident reply. “And I am going to make
a little more of it so I can take the same for school the next day. That ways I
won’t have to wake up early tomorrow.”
“That’s great,” I mused. He was planning his meals in advance. He was
also learning to be ok with having left over food in the tiffin next day. Good!
In the evening I saw his elder sister sympathizing and helping him out with the white sauce for the pasta. That was against the rules but I acted like I hadnt seen it. Even if he wasn’t saying it, I could see he was tired and was already understanding the effort that goes in the kitchen. He wouldn’t say it yet though. Ego! Plus he was happy he wouldn’t have to eat the brinjal sabzi that day.
The chicken pasta turned out perfect in taste but very
little in quantity, just enough for his dinner. That meant he would have to
plan something for the next day tiffin now. He asked me for the recipe of my
corn quesadilla and I explained it to him in detail. It was after dinner and I
could see he was sleepy. My maternal instincts were killing me but I kept a
bold face. He prepared the corn, capsicum filling and then went to bed, so he
could get a few extra minutes of sleep in the morning. He had learnt meal prep. Good.
Day 3: He woke up 15 mins early. Prepped the tortilla and
made the quesadilla in the air fryer. He was happy it turned out great. He
washed an apple and added it to his lunch bag too. “What’s the plan for
dinner?” I asked. “Veg fried rice with scrambled egg, “ he said, appearing bored
even just thinking about it. Before leaving for school he gave me an unexpected
hug. I could have melted.
When he came home from school he announced “Naah I am too
bored of cooking the rice. Ill just make an omlette. What are you guys having
by the way?” Our menu was cheese chilly toast and tomato soup. This was going
to be a hard one to pass for him. But he stood his ground and didn’t show like it
bothered him. Then suddenly he noticed a glass jar with the mango coconut barfi
that I had made that morning.
“Who made these?”
“I did.”
“No you didn’t, you bought them.” (if it was store bought,
as per the rules, he could eat it)
“No I made them in the morning.”
“Hmm” he said and walked off. Within 5 minutes his weakness had
gotten the better of him –
“Ok ok fine I say I am sorry. But only because I know you
want me to eat it (teenage ego still intact). I know you would feel really sad
if I didn’t. You know I love them.” (True, but my face didn’t show that.)
“No no don’t worry. I am fine.”
“OK OK, I won’t call your food bad and”(his hand was already
in the jar)
“Any food!” I interrupted, “You shall not call ANY food ‘bad’.
Go on”.
“And I will be thankful for the food I get.”
“Ok then. I am glad you..”
Even before I could finish, he had assumed I had accepted
the apology, had hurriedly pulled out two barfis and walked out of the room,
relieved he did not have to worry about dinner now. Right about that time the husband walked in
and seeing the truce whispered to me, “Manipulator!”
To be honest, yes. The barfi wasn’t in a see-through glass
jar without purpose. The glass jar wasn’t on the table without reason. He had
learnt his lesson and there was no point in stretching it. I wanted it over as
much as him.
Feasting over the toast and the soup he
gave a satisfactory burp and then made an interesting suggestion - “In future if I don’t like something you
make, I won’t call it bad. I’ll just make Monica’s fake ‘Ummm’ sound like when she ate Rachel’s meat pudding. Sounds good?”
Ummmmm.. Sounds good.
