Today, my Dad came over to play with the kids, so I made him a very manly hot pastrami sandwich (hold the frisée), along with blackberries from Guatemala and sugar snap peas from god knows where. Both kids were happily munching on their pea pods when my Dad declared himself to be done. With a big pile of untouched snap peas on his plate.
Him: What’s for dessert?
Me: For you? Nothing. You didn’t eat your peas.
Him: I had a bite. I don’t like them.
Me: You don’t like peas? But you ate them in the artichoke risotto just last week. Remember how you were picking out all the artichokes, and I asked if there was a single vegetable on earth that you liked, and you said peas?
Him: Yeah, cooked. Not raw and still in the womb.
Me: But they’re really good this way.
Him: I like my vegetables cooked. I don’t eat sushi peas.
(Swear to god, he said “sushi peas.”)
Me: Kids, do you think Poppi should get dessert if he doesn’t eat his peas?
Me: Sorry, Dad, those are the rules.
Him: How about this? How about I just get back in my car, turn around, and go home?
Me: …Tell me again what flavor of ice cream you wanted...
Free babysitting. That’s why tough love doesn’t work on your parents.