The Making of a Beet Salad

Stir beets slow

rooaaasssstttttiiiiiinnnnnnngggggggg

in oven Hot while

quinoa bubbles pop

don't stop until

a soft

com-

bin-

a-tion

they transform in

to

dinner salad

seasonal

delicacies

in tummies

yumm...

  Now, where did that chicken go?

Chicken à la Lino Without You

The last bite of chicken lies
wet on the floor,
growing colder as
we throw barbed taunts,
defiant challenges
with our eyes.

Seconds tick by...
I bubble,
broiling up
like the
congealed mass
on yesterday's linoleum.

Fire burns bright
in indignation
"How could you do that?"
Dead poultry don't tell no tales.
Neither does your daughter.
And flung chicken makes me miss you even more.

There is a new poetry hangout in town by the name of d'Verse ~Poet's Pub. Tonight they are hosting Meeting  the Bar: Critique and Craft with a big theme, namely big topics, ie. death, life, grief, suffering, etc., but the suggestion is to come at it from a less than blatantly direct angle. The thrust of the night is to offer honest, helpful and informative critiques of other poets work. I read a few pieces and am going to explore a few more before hitting the hay, but thought I would add a poem of my own.

You tell me the theme. If you can't get it, that lets me know that more work is needed. I welcome your two cents worth. Thanks for visiting!

Dinner Time

Meal time at my house;

Yeah, not a fun thing at present.

I make a meal,

any meal, be it liked or no

and then commence to nag!

I take a bite of my food,

then say "eat".

I take a sip of a beverage,

then say "Eat".

I stare at my daughter,

then say "EAT!"

and at some point thereafter

I lose it

again.

I have threatened no dessert.

I have threatened no stories.

I have stated that this meal

will be served for dinner tomorrow,

but no one cares.

Do I?

Hell yes, as I am beginning to feel like 

the Wicked Witch of the West!

Eating my meal

with fire in my eyes

and evil in my heart

ready to screech out my hollow wrath

at the drop of a fork

She says she will eat her dinner 

"when she is a Mommy"

I tell her she will never grow to be an adult

without food in her belly,

but unblinking eyes register

NOTHING.

She is not a Mommy yet

and will eat when she is good and ready

apparently.

and apparently

my battles that I wage alone

are not so uncommon,

but I still wish

that this phase would pass...

still waiting

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is 7:07 PM. My youngest daughter has a plate of food in front of her that I am sure is icy cold. Dinner started closer to the 6:00 mark. My eldest  child left the table about 15 minutes ago. She inquired about dessert, but I reminded her that her sister was still eating. With a shrug she left, saying "call me when it is time for dessert!" We shall see. I think I need another drink...

cassoulet vs chocolate?

   What wonderful things cross my brain this evening? Tonight was my weekly dinner feast with friends Nancy and David. We had extra bodies tonight, as Sue and Don were exposed to the joy of dining with children (of which they have none and desire none). A yummy cassoulet was our fare, compliments of Sue. She was almost dismayed that the children (three girls 4 1/2, 4 1/2 and 3 years) were not interested in her delicacies. Ha! The other three parents at the table smirked. We have all had more meals than can be counted where food has been snubbed for more reasons than can be imagined. No other reason is needed to not eat than having company to escape with. Only the lure of chocolate or chicken nuggets tempts fickle appetites. We have found ways around this by letting the girls eat after us when we dine at my house. We can enjoy our meal and sip at wine in a civilized manner with adult conversation. The girls either beat a hasty retreat to the basement, where food is either eaten or not, but not witnessed by us, so not as painful. They do sometimes join our table, but I think they enjoy having their own time and space together. It seems to make us all happier. Well worth it. And one night where I am not badgering my children to eat seemingly forever, until I cannot take it any more. I hate hitting the one more bite or two more bites phase, but it seems to be the only thing that will work some nights. Nancy's strategies are to feed the girls sure-fire kiddables like hot dogs or macaroni and cheese, while we get to dine on gastronomical dishes that our children would never eat, like the spicy curry we enjoyed last week. Ahh.

   I think that is what I like best about my Tuesday dinners. I get to be an adult. I get to eat and talk with other adults of like mind. We get to eat food that we like, whether the kids eat or not. We can reminisce about days of yore when we could savour a meal without having to clean up spilled milk or grate our teeth over uneaten food. I can be me and let go of my Mommy reins. Someone else is there to help. Someone else is just plain old there. Whether they serve meals, clean plates or just talk to me. I am not alone. Yes, I am not alone. I like Tuesdays.

Wednesday Whirlwinds

I had a good day today. It was another mild, blissfully sunny November day. I dropped off the kids, grabbed a coffee and headed out to pick up a few things. I managed to spend a few dollars, but got a birthday present for my sister, a new bedspread  and mattress pad for the soon-to-be new bed for my eldest and some other bits and bobs. Fresh bread from the bakery served to fill my tummy with sandwich before attacking the floor that had challenged me for too long. Satisfaction at a clean floor helped me to sail along to yoga for an ohm good time. A bottle of wine picked up and hugs from the darlings continued the smiles, as did lighting of the BBQ for a late in the season steak dinner. All good.

So where did it all go wrong? All that positive energy I built up all day exploded when the milk hit the floor (my newly mopped floor!) followed by a plate full of juicy steak, potatoes and salad with salad dressing of course. The chair pillow was soaked. The wall was splattered. My beautiful clean floor had lasted for a scant few hours and I was livid. I hate mopping the floor, but when I do mop I find a serene beauty in it. It makes me blissfully happy to know that I have conquered the dirt, germs and stains. It never lasts though. The day the floor gets mopped is the day that mass food spillage is guaranteed to occur. Sighing and shaking my head are all I can muster now, but the kids got worse than that. I sometimes wonder where my anger comes from. How can I get so upset over spilled milk? Well, it was also working on the 45 minute mark of sitting at the table and I had been watching them eat for the better part of 20 with an empty plate in front of me. Both of their plates were still looking almost untouched. "Wasting food!" my brain screams at me. "My time and energy" my defeated soul moans. I yell and rant and lose the battle again. "Maybe I just won't make dinner any more!", I fume, knowing that is a ridiculous threat, but wishing that I could somehow convince them that the dinner wars are just not worth it. I am not the first parent to have these challenges and I know I will not be the last. I just wish I could be a little more graceful at making dinner flow pleasantly. We lit candles for goodness sake and had music playing! It should have been a good meal. I even served bread (probably the downfall there). Yeah, yeah, you lose Katherine, let it go.

I could not let it go though. Dinner crashed to its close and I re-mopped the floor. The dishes were put away from the dishwasher and refilled. I finished my wine without children, breathed for a moment and then jumped back into the ring. This time the battle was the play room. Why do I do this to myself?! Oh Lord, but the floor has not been seen for many a day/week. I entered the room and threw the gloves down. Television off. This was serious. I had been warning them this day was coming and today was the day. I figured I was in the right spirit for it, so sat down amidst the mayhem and began to sort. The kids brought me toys to sort into bins and I directed what was to go where. "Garbage. Your bedroom. Dress-up trunk. Garbage. garbage." Two hours. T asked me, "is it bedtime yet?" I looked at my watch to find it was already nine! Holy shamoley!! The mess was tamed though. The floor was discovered and it was good. T even thought it looked much better. I tried to vacuum after the girls were tucked into bed, but even it resisted me tonight. A broom finished the job. Unfortunately my dream of a tub tonight was shattered. Sigh. Alas, alack-a-day! The basement can be walked into though. The garbage has been put out. And now it is way high time for me to toss my weary cranky body into bed. I will live to fight another day, but hopefully tomorrow the fight will not be about food or a messy basement. Please