a condiment conundrum

This past weekend, my son was home for dinner both Saturday AND Sunday night.  A rarity for his schedule – both social and work.  Since he is the biggest fan of my cooking, I decided to tailor the meals just for him.  My wife and his two sisters have less open-minded pallets.  Therefore, they eat chicken.  A lot. And, yes, they even complain about the damn chicken.  Not really.  But there are ‘comments’.

Below is what I prepared on his behalf.

Saturday – seasoned  New York strip steak, baked potato, vegetable stir fry with zucchini, yellow squash, and onion

Sunday – chicken breasts stuffed with homemade pesto, mashed potatoes, asparagus

My son is twenty.  Therefore, he is still tentative on the whole vegetable side dish concept.  I’m totally fine with that.  Those creations are for me. And, my wife, of course, to eat with her chicken.  Both these entrees were executed to perfection.  Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but the food was fucking awesome – especially the steaks.  Normally, I suck at grilling.  But these steaks were amazing.

Before my son even took one bite of each  meal, he … dramatic pause … added ketchup. (insert: heavy sigh) I even heard that horrendous ‘fart’ noise the squeeze bottle makes when it’s compressed.  Then, if that wasn’t bad enough, he waited for the bottle to recoil and squeezed  again.

I  almost cried.  In fact, I think I did later that evening when I was alone, curled up in the corner in the fetal position.

To be perfectly honest, no tears were shed.  Instead, I washed the dishes.  I thought the dramatic flare was a nice touch though.  But, I did  vehemently  curse the inventor of said ketchup as I scraped  his plate.

For the record, this whole condiment gene is from my wife’s lineage.  My father-in-law even puts ketchup on pasta. Gasp .  Yes, you read that correctly.  Pasta. Fun fact, my mother-in-law is 100% Italian. I thought I had it rough. Ketchup on homemade pasta sauce.  Ouch!

Me. I never use ketchup.  It’s really kinda’ gross if you ask me.  In fact, I don’t even put the stuff on my hamburger.  I think that may be un American.  But, … . I like mustard. though.  And mayo.  Does that count?

Regardless, I love my son. He’s a good boy.  Furthermore, I love cooking for him.  He will be off to college in a few short months.  As far as I’m concerned, he can do whatever the hell he wants to his food.  All that matters is that he is home, eating what I’ve prepared.  Then, we sit around the dinner table and … catch up.


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