My Daughter's Dinner

I routinely cooked entire meals for my family when I was five years old. At least that is what I tell my children.

I also remember walking to school uphill both ways in the snow. In Los Angeles.

"Everyone is going to learn how to cook," I announced on Monday.

My seven year-old daughter was very interested in the idea of making a meal for our family. However, she was not at all interested in me helping or supervising her in any way, shape, or form.

"Just give me the recipe book and leave me alone!" she screamed.

I called my husband and told him to expect something delicious.

After much deliberation, she decided to make stir-fry using a bag of shrimp and pack of frozen vegetables that she found in the freezer.

I poked my head around the corner. "If you need any help, let me know," I said.

"If you come in here again, I'm not going to feed you," she hissed.

Based upon the looks of the things in the frying pan, I wasn't sure that was such a bad thing.

Five minutes later, dinner was served.

"Everything is still frozen!" Cortlen whined, gnawing a broccoli ice cube. I kicked him under the table.

Unable to find any stir-fry sauce in the pantry, my daughter substituted it for the next best thing: ketchup.

"It looks yummy!" I gagged. Camber sat down at the table and watched us expectantly.

I told her that I wanted to savor the meal as long as possible. I had big hopes that I could defer the actual eating process indefinitely.

"I can't eat this!" Kellen yelled and shoved his plate away. I sent him to his room for being rude. He seemed happy to go.

"That's too bad for Kellen," my daughter said, "But good for you." She dumped the contents of my son's plate onto mine.

I giggled nervously.

"You know who really likes stir-fry?" I said. "Your dad." In an act of selfless generosity, I offered my dinner to my husband when he came home from work.

My husband was very grateful.