I'd had my fill. It was sometime last week between the day I knocked my spices off the stupid spice shelf that resembles risers in an elementary school music program and the day I caught the recycling papers on fire from the flame of the gas oven getting a little to close.
I'm the first to admit I love to cook. But... the constant requests, spilt drinks, dishes left in the living room, lunches to make, tables to clear and the never-ending 'I'm hungry' whimper brought me to my knees. I'd had enough. My kids were moochers.
I called a mandatory meeting. Effective immediately, each of my children were assigned a night of dinner-preparation. Even Molly. They could prepare anything they wanted. By that point, I didn't care.
Ross decided he would make homemade pizza on Monday's, Maisie would make lasagna casserole on Tuesdays and Molly would make tacos on Thursday (mostly so she could gorge herself on black olives during the slicing process).
The first week is the teaching week. I teach them the recipe.
The second week, I will be their assistant throughout the cooking process.
The third week, they are on their own and we get, what we get.
Maisie prepared her casserole on Tuesday night. Following a recipe from start to finish. The hardest part was sharing tasks with Molly as she wasn't to be left out.
Working the can opener proved to be even more daunting than browning the beef. It ended up being a 2-man job.
The casserole turned out fine. A cross between Chef Boyardee and school lunch quality food. I asked Molly if she wanted some leftover lasagna casserole for lunch on Wednesday to which she replied, "No that was so gross."
We'll see how long this lasts.
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