I have this delusion someday my family will eat fresh,
healthy food. If I have chips in the house, The Boy will finish them in a day. Two
tops. A two-liter bottle is good for a day. Right now we have The Boy rationed
to one can of Orange Fanta a day. It’s a small step. Now, for salads. I have
exciting salads on the menu. Every now and then I forget how the gentle nudge toward
healthy went last time I tried it.
Hubby saw my foolish plan, and didn’t say a word. I got out
the beautiful romaine lettuce, sweet cucumbers, and some gorgeous tomatoes. I
prepared all of these and the kitchen took on a fresh, crisp, summery smell. He
perked up when I pulled out crumbled feta and garbanzo beans. Shot me a
disgusted look at the black olives, but forgave me immediately when I brought
out the avocados. Hubby loves avocados.
Knowing the finickyness of The Boy, I added croutons to the
array of little bowls strewn across my counter. The Girl was already covered,
she loves anything Greek so the olives and feta would tickle her. Plus I had
Greek dressing.
Feeling prepared, and ignoring Hubby, I called the kids to
dinner.
The Girl looked, saw I had everything in individual bowls so
it was clearly a do-it-yourself, put-the-control-in-her-hands affair, and she wouldn’t be expected to eat any of that
nasty avocado. She accepted the plan and made herself a lovely salad.
The Boy took one look and walked away. I grabbed the lanky
teen and pulled him back. He’s still shorter than me, which was the only
reason I succeeded. I explained dinner is all under his control (of course meaning he can put whatever he likes on his
salad). That was a tip from those raising-teenage-boys books I’ve been reading.
Yeah. Great idea. His choice was not a salad. He made himself a PB&J.
Brat.
The salad was great, by the way. Thanks for asking. I highly recommend it.
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