Thursday, January 27, 2011

something new for dinner (lyn)

No school again today.  The 4th time this month.  It snowed 15.3 inches overnight.  At 36 inches, this has been the snowiest January since the National Weather Service started keeping track in 1869.  56.5 inches have fallen to date, against a seasonal average of 22.  It’s the sixth major snowstorm since Thanksgiving.  This is my favorite weather.  Zelia thinks I’m just saying this to be different.  I’m not. 

By noon, the sun is out, the roads are cleared, and the sidewalks have no snow on them at all.  But cars are still buried and the piles of snow at the sidewalk’s edge are about three feet tall. 

Around 4, my Fresh Direct order arrives.  Since I discovered Costco, I’ve been ordering less from Fresh Direct, but needing a case of Coke (for Alexander) and Diet Coke (for me), I placed an order a couple of days ago.  I also bought a couple of 4-minute meals, created by Fresh Direct’s in-house chefs.  I chose from the category, Smart and Simple, under 500 calories.  I rarely eat pasta, but the $7.99 Portobello Mushroom Ravioli with Three-Tomato Sauce looks great.  Before buying it, I calculate the points at 11.  Not too bad.

When Alexander asks, “What’s for dinner?” I tell him.   He reacts as if I’d told him we were having pickled tongue with sauerkraut.  “I’m not having that.  I don’t trust you anymore in the kitchen,” he says.  He’s not kidding.  He goes on a mini-verbal rampage about how I used to be a good cook, but ever since I started caring about my weight, my cooking has gone downhill.  He then recalls some of my more recent catastrophes:  like the broccoli and mint mush thing;  the spaghetti-squash lasagna; and the overcooked brussel sprouts.  He kindly forgets the disastrous Indian chicken-dish that I bought at Costco and served to him and Robyn on New Year’s Eve.  He keeps insisting that he is not going to eat something “new” and adds, “I get really scared sometimes because I know what you are capable of in the kitchen.” 

Finally, Alexander agrees to eat what I serve, but only after he’s extracted the following promise from me: “If, after one bite,  I really hate it, then I can go out and get pizza instead.”

He never has the pizza.  The meal is spectacular.

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