I expect so little

I plan the meals, buy the ingredients, cook them, serve them, and watch you dine on them from across the counter where I stand while you eat because I don't even have a chair(basically, it's a situation where counter is too small for more chairs and the dining room is too far away). And, when you are done, I clean it all up.

I sit there and listen to you, and your band of brothers, critique (and sometimes ridicule), my culinary skills on your homemade Cook America show that you all play every night.

I've actually sunk so low, that I feel a little tinge of anxiety as I await the verdict from my personal Randy(#2), Paula(#3), Simon(#1), and the new judge (whatever her name is, no one want to be her so they make Hubby do it).

Most nights, thankfully, you send me to Hollywood (although, when I say I'm off to pack you insist it's only pretend and I'm not aloud to really go).

But, some nights.

Some nights are like last night, and instead of a glowing review, I get to catch puke in a saucepan.

I get to sit there and watch your cheeks bulge as they fill with the formerly delicious cuisine that I slaved over.

I get to watch in horror as you mouth-clamped-shut-scream, and bounce around in your seat, and hope that this is a joke.

A really sick joke.

A really sick joke, in which a little dribble of green tinted puke (we had green rice w/beans and meat, a lovely Mexican delight that was freakin' DELICIOUS, you bloody ingrate), seeps from your tightly pursed lips, and I realize that this, in fact, is not a joke.

This, in fact, is my life.

A life I generally love.

Except for on days like this. When I have to listen to you scream and accuse me of "forcing" you to puke (WTH would I do that? Because I like to wash puke down my kitchen sink?), and "trying to kill" you (you ain't seen nothing yet, Chief).

When I have to sit there and rub your back, and look into your watery eyes, and pretend that I am sorry for bringing you a taste of class, for allowing you to experience culinary excellence. These are the days I love a little less.

So, on my birthday (which is today if you somehow forgot to wish me Happy Birthday), we are going to have something you enjoy consistently ('cause, I coulda sworn you liked my Mexican food). I will forgo my rib eye salad, my vegetable lasagna, and my chicken and mushroom pasta, and instead we will have chicken nuggets and french fries.

Because, more than anything, I'd like a puke free meal to go along with the cake I picked, baked, and iced for myself (of course you get a slice, silly).

And, if that means chicken and fries, then so be it.