Destroy was busy narrating the scenic drive and telling us about his day as we completed the short drive home from school. Weeknights are always a bit frenzied round these parts – get kids, get home, get dinner – as we race the clock to beat a hungry muppet meltdown.
“Do you want spaghetti for dinner?” I interrupted the little narrator?
“No,” he replied matter-of-factly. “No getty.”
“No spaghetti?! But it’s yummy yummy!” I encouraged. Because reasoning with a cranky toddler always ends well.
“No. No getty, “he explained. “Pffttt.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked my rearview mirror. “What do you want for dinner then?”
“Special. I want special.”
Well okay then, kid. Let me tell you about tonight’s specials…
Let’s take a brief moment here to journey back into the annals of my family’s culinary gene pool. The women on my side of the family aren’t fantastic. (I have the impressive habit of blowing shit up in the kitchen. Which, while an impressive visual fireworks display, makes for less than tasty meals.)
Grandma Winnie (G.G.) was no master chef; her younger brother Uncle John, however, delights in the intricate flavors and textures he can create from exotic ingredients. His kids, therefore, were used to more in-depth dishes.
One afternoon, many decades ago, a young Nancy was hanging out with her cousins. It was lunchtime.
Grandma Winnie called Nancy over to the Formica kitchen from the kitchen, playing the role of a proper housewife.
G.G.: I’m making turkey sandwiches.
Nancy: No thank you, Aunt Winnie.
G.G.: Would you like peanut butter and jelly?
(Seriously? Who doesn’t want PB&J. I’m craving one right now.)
G.G.: Ok…how about a grilled cheese?
Nancy: Ewww. <wrinkles nose> You only have fake cheese.
(Are you noticing a sandwich theme here?)
G.G.: Well what DO you want for lunch?!
Nancy: <thoughtful pause> Beef wellington.
A turkey sandwich it was!
I can’t help but wonder if such traits are genetic. Nancy was a preemie too. And also, Destroy got spaghetti for dinner.