Memo to My Family

Re: Shut up and Eat

The other night we sitting down to dinner when my husband said, “Mmmm… Where’d ya get orange/pineapple juice from?”

Now mind you, it wasn’t some funky, hand-squeezed concoction. It wasn’t in a cool, mother earth-style organic glass bottle with a pretty label. It was a run of the mill Tropicana jug sitting there, right in front of him. Where the hell did he think it came from?!

“Why do you always ask me these things?” I said. “I got it at the grocery store, where else would I get it?” I mean, I obviously didn’t have time to go to Florida that day, and I hadn’t chopped up a pineapple in our kitchen and then run it through the blender, right? Why does he ask me these things?

It happens pretty often, Like: where did the Applegate brand deli ham come from? Where did the pasta sauce come from? Where’d you get these dark chocolate covered almonds from?

So I asked him, and he said it was just his way (in this case) of asking why I had bought orange juice AND pineapple mixed together, because I rarely do, and he likes it — but he thought our daughter didn’t like it.

See, this is the thing I don’t get about men. Why not just say, “Gee honey, it’s really nice you bought this mixed juice, because I like it.”

If you think I sound bitchy and like I am over reacting, you’re right. I’m bitchy because I spend enormous amounts of time and energy shopping for this household, hauling the stuff home, up two flights of stairs, and cooking it all. I think that should give me a pass from coded questions about the origin of the products.

Because I care about fresh produce, etc., the supermarket isn’t enough, so I often try to hit the local farmer’s markets. Because I have a restricted diet, I also have to hit the health food store on a regular basis (and hey, trying to make a cake from scratch with garbanzo bean flour would make anyone cranky).

Because I work I also have to find time to fit this all in, and make it to the regular supermarket, and do the meal planning — since I am the one that pack’s our daughter’s lunch, plans the meals and runs the kitchen.

This leaves me little time to really try to put together a decent food budget; I know where the best store is in our area in terms of a supermarket with a big selection and good prices; it is really far from my daughter’s school, so I shop at the store close to my drop off/pick up radius. And try my best to fill in the gaps with the farmer’s market when I can, for example.

This should explain why I get irritated when my husband calls and wants to know what is for dinner. Why should I have to answer that? I’ve asked him to get involved in the meal planning, but that hasn’t happened. I think lack of involvement should make you exempt from being able to call up and ask what’s for dinner. When he adds in questions like, “Where’d you get the lamb?” I just want to throw the meal out the window.

When he asks, “Oh, why did you put the seasoning in that way?” I just want to throw him out the window.

My attitude is everyone should just shut the hell up and show up and eat. If you aren’t going to do meal planning, 50 percent of the shopping and cooking, then just shut your pie hole. (And eat your pie. I’m really bitchy right now, but last week I made an honest to goodness apple pie. So there.)

Now that my mom has been sick, my brothers and I came up with a meal plan for the house, because mom can’t be counted on to cook and she needs to eat. Mom DOES cook when she feels up to it (mom, your black bean soup this week rocked!).

So we rotate cooking and eat a lot of meals together. As a working mom, you would think this takes a lot of the burden off me, and it does – don’t get me wrong. Dragging myself and the kid home from soccer practice I am more than grateful to have a dinner waiting for me because my brother has cooked it (even if 65 percent of the time or more it is some variation of spaghetti with sausages. Seriously. And we aren’t Italian.) But cooking for the ENTIRE family, and a sick mom, means the stakes are pretty damn high. If I am tired or on a deadline and want to just feed my kid some organic hot dogs and sliced up tomatoes and cucumbers, that is fine by her. But it won’t fly so well with the rest of the family.

But when my little brother started calling me during the day and asking me what was for dinner (on  my nights to cook) it was the straw that broke the camel’s back…

Not only that, but I answered him — and then there was this pause, and he was like – “What about a salad?”

Are you (*&^%$! kidding me?!

Recently I made a very large pot of chicken soup, from scratch. My brother informed me that it really would be better if I had added the rice at a different step in the process. I don’t burn things on my stove; there is enough smoke coming out of my ears at this point!

So – I have had to make a family announcement to the men: the only people that are allowed to ask me what is for dinner is the six year old, and my sick mom (who by the way – usually doesn’t ask!)

That is it people. Don’t call and interrupt me from my day to ask me what is for dinner. Options for takeout are somewhat limited in our neighborhood. You may find yourself ordering from Kay’s Spring Garden, our local chinese takeout, more than you’d like.

Now, if you will excuse me from my nonstop bitchy rant, I need to go clean up last night’s Chinese takeout.

This is an original New Jersey Mom’s Blog post. Theta Pavis is a writer who loves to bake, but you couldn’t tell it from reading this.  She also likes tofu, but tries not to subject her family to it, which should prove she really isn’t that mean.