Ok so today was boring.  My brother had a friend over, which was nice for him.  My mother did some catching up on her lesson plans (she's a teacher), and my father was in bed a lot of the day, having caught a rather inconvenient cold.  I did nothing today aside from nurse my soy and consume copious amounts of water and weak iced tea.  It was boring, but in a way kinda nice.

I did watch several good cooking shows on FoodNetwork.  There's a recipe for a banana-walnut stuffed french toast that I'll have to try sometime. I love cooking.

So then dinner time comes around.. this, you'll find- is the real heart of this entry. 

My mother starts to make it, and after a bit I relieve her of her duties so that she can continue doing her school work.  As I said, I love to cook, and have no problem making the dinner.  I made rotini pasta with a garden vegetable red sauce, a beautiful salad consisting of Iceburg lettuce, grated carrots, cheddar and swiss cheeses and pepperoni and finished the meal off with classic bread and butter.  A perfectly lovely, very Italian meal.

If you cannot yet tell- I take pride in the food I prepare, no matter how simple- and have a tendency to be very protective of it.

So we all gather around the table (aside from my mother and father).  The pasta is passed out, the bread is passed out, as is the salad.  Both my brother and Friend reach for the dressing.  I watch in horror as they drain the contents of the bottle over their plates- fighting to drown every piece of lettuce.

Oh just kill me please- I stifle a sob, choke back a tear...the lettuce is screaming... the cheeses are sogging- I can take it no more.  Careful to keep my cool, I say:

"Ok you two... let's save some of the ranch for the bottle."  I gingerly pry their greasy little fingers from the empty container, fighting the urge to heave it at their mother loving heads.

Friend looks at me.  "I like a lot of ranch on my salad." 

Ok- maybe I'm over reacting.  I mean, as long as he eats it, right?  If he eats it- then well... what's the point of complaining?

The meal continues in silence and general peace.  Overall it runs smoothly, save for me having to tell Friend to use a fork, and my brother that bread belongs on the plate, not on the table.  Other than that, the only sounds to be heard are the sounds of chewing- music to the ears of a chef.

It's bliss, until I hear Friend say:

"Can I be excused?"  I am ready to nod- I raise my hand to wave him off- and just as quickly put it down.  I notice that his salad is completely untouched.

"Why didn't you eat any salad, Friend?"  I ask, gritting my teeth and hoping the kid has a stomach ulcer or some other really good explanation for this atrocity against produce.

Friend looks at me innocently.  I think now is a great time to mention that he is full blooded Italian.

"Oh I never eat pasta and salad together." He says, before skipping off to indulge in a post meal video game.

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My tongue has never bled so much.