Yesterday though I was the picture of domesticity.
I woke early and eager to head to the grocery store.
First sign I was coming down with something.
No. Really. I strolled through the store with plans of meals in my mind.
I wanted something new, something exciting, something different.
I found chicken, and veggies, and craved a good hearty soup.
Something warm and filling and that the whole family would eat.
I wanted Minestrone, but started simple with Chicken Noodle soup.
Every kid eats it, with or without those Spongebob or Princess noodles.
I made it in the crockpot. 8 hours and it would be done. The smell from the kitchen was lovely. I even marinated the leftover chicken for an upcoming night...and made muffins.
I was freaking Betty Crocker if I do say so myself.
K said it smelled good. But she's short.
I say that because she couldn't see the crock pot like my son did when he got home.
"Why is it green? It looks like vomit!"
The greenish tint was due to the herbs and seasonings, and it did NOT resemble puke, thank you very much my loving overly-honest son!
My excitement waned.
When dinner was ready and I wanted to dip my sourdough bread into the delciousness without hearing anymore grief.
My once skeptical son said, "it's good, real good mom!"
Told ya so!
"This chicken sticks to my teeth!"
"I don't like this soup!"
"I don't like cooked carrots!"
My heart sinks.
I don't say a word. I hate trying something new, feeling good, and like a good wife and mother, then getting let down.
I try hard to remember the days when I was too a picky eater.
But, come on, chicken noodle soup?!
I didn't make a second meal. Like I do often to appease the naysayers. I let Hubby handle it, which didn't end up well. Daddy and Mommy dearest left the meal on the table for the girls all night, yet they didn't eat another bite, just bread and juice.
You bet they were ravenous this morning for breakfast.
Me, well, I'm over it. Until the next time.
So much for being domestic. PFFFFFFFFFT!