Shepard's Pie

Tonight I discovered a conundrum. One that has (most likely) been around for centuries. Mother's who can cook well, but also like to spend time with their children face it everyday, and we, the ignorant masses, never know of it.

I'm not sure if they do.

Let's take Shepard Pie Night on any old day before today: Shepard's Pie? Boring. It taste like cheese, and beef. It's like a taco, in a pot, only instead of spicy sauce, you go the A1 route. Tonight? I don't know what, exactly, it was we ate, but it was fantastic.

It tasted like I imagine most meals in Heaven, or Emeril's, taste like. It needed no extra flavors, it had vegetables and starches, meats and dairy.

It was the perfect meal. And it has been missing from my life, these many years.

And I think I know why.

Let's rewind the clock a few years. My brother and I are at the dinner table. We are both exhausted, mentally and physically. Football practice and school have tapped us out.

We sit down to the table where our little sister sits, at her smaller place, with her smaller cups and plastic plates, pouting because she thinks shes a big girl now, and she knows she deserves a bigger plate. Even though she too hates Shepard's Pie.

My brother and I will do anything to avoid eating this. But, with our father and mother looking on, we know it's impossible. We are doomed to this meal, and we know it. But, if we're going to be forced to eat it, well...they (our parents) are going to be forced to stay here far longer than is needed.

And that's how, after forty five minutes of fart jokes and name dropping high school girls and the all the drama implied, my mother would finally concede and say "Eat a few more bites."

To which we would of course respond, "Do we get desert?"

What we didn't know was that my mother? She was winning. Not only were all her children spending more time with her, but we were actually conspiring to do so.

Tonight's meal was fantastic, it was perfection topped with cheese. And took all of five minutes to eat two helpings of. She spent two hours making it, we spent 1/24th of that time eating it. And with a simple "Thanks, Mom." we were off, back to our respective dwelling or studying places.

Then again. We're older now, we're still her babies, but we aren't her babies. We're old enough to where she knows she doesn't really like us all that much.

So now, she makes the better food, knowing it will get us out of her sight faster.

Smart play, Mom. Smart play.