"Your food tastes disgusting! Last time I ate it, my stomach hurt so bad! You're probably poisoning me!"
"Your stomach hurt because you ate too much ice cream, not because of my cooking. How is that my fault? You're my own flesh and blood. Why would I ever try to hurt you?"
"I don't care! From now on, I'd rather eat Aunt Nora's leftovers every single day than touch anything you make!"
I grabbed my son, hauled him over, and smacked his bottom hard. Once, twice, three times.
"Are you going to eat other people's leftovers again? Are you?!"
John wailed at the top of his lungs. At first he was stubborn, screaming yes through his tears. It wasn't until the sting really set in that he finally caved.
"No! I won't! I'll eat my food from now on, I promise!"
The very next day, he was at it again.
He picked up a bite of the moo shu pork I'd made, chewed once, and spat it right back out.
"Mom's food tastes gross. I don't want it."
Then he burst into tears.
I was exhausted. Body and soul.
"Fine. If my cooking is so terrible, your dad can cook for you from now on."