I find a recipe that looks great. Roasted carrots and parsnips. I happen to have the ingredients as I had planned to use them for a soup, but it's too difficult to calculate the points for the soup recipe so I opt instead to roast the vegetables (this is the first time I have ever even bought parsnips).
The prep time for the recipe says 15 minutes. I time it. It takes me three times that to wash, peel, and julienne all the carrots and parsnips. I add a tiny bit of olive oil and some seasonings and roast for another 45 minutes. They look as good as the picture on the recipe. If I didn’t know better I’d think the parsnips were perfectly prepared french fries. Even Alexander is excited to try them.
My expectations are high. The recipe has the potential for being great: healthy vegetables, low points, something new. We sit down to dinner and Alexander is not happy with the main course choice- pork loin stuffed with apricots and figs. He tries the vegetables first. I think they are good, not great. Alexander gags on them and dramatically begs me not to make him eat them. “Why can’t you just buy green vegetables?” he wails. I know that as soon as I leave the house to go to book club my son's vegetables that took 90 minutes to prepare are going in the garbage (along with his barely eaten pork).
Unlike Alexander, I eat most of my dinner, which prevents me from partaking in the pizza that is sitting on the table all night, as we discuss The Wrong Mother by Sophie Hannah. The entire book club agrees that the book starts with much promise (excellent writing, an intriguing plot, quirky characters) but by the end, everything falls apart (too many characters with too many side stories and an unbelievable, too-tidy resolution).
It's disappointing when the idea of something is so much better than its delivery.
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