Oh, the complaining. Every week I ask myself if it’s worth the free babysitting.
Him: Why can’t you just make real food when I come over?
Me: This is real food.
Him: No, REAL FOOD. Like hamburgers and French fries.
Me: You can get that anywhere. Plus, don’t you get sick of eating the same stuff all the time?
Him: No. At least I know I like it.
Me: You’ll like this.
(Which, for the record, was a somewhat manly version of bruschetta: crusty, garlicky bread with ricotta, chorizo, pickled onions, and frisée. But it was really light on the frisée, I swear.)
Him: I can’t even pronounce what you make half the time.
Me: You don’t have to pronounce it.
Him: Plus, it’s taking too long.
Me: It’s only been, like, ten minutes.
Him: Yeah, but it should only take 10 seconds from the time I walk into the kitchen until the time it hits my mouth. No longer than it takes to open a can.
Me: Wow, Dad. Them’s some high standards!
There it is, Michael Pollan. The “omnivore’s dilemma” in a nutshell.