Ravioli
My kids have had ravioli before, but it’s been a while. My son remembered it so well he announced we were having guacamole for dinner and refused to consider alternative pronunciations. We went with it.
By the time the pasta was actually cooking, he’d upgraded the name to “macarovi.” His sister tried “baloney” a couple times. He corrected her, casually, the way you’d correct someone who called a dog a cat. She moved on. No confrontation.
I made a quick garlic herb butter and spread it on three quarters of a shelf-stable French baguette. Knowing my daughter, I left the remaining quarter plain, just in case. She peeked through the oven window expecting a plain loaf. Instead she found a loaf of betrayal — somebody had spread stuff across the bread. Her eyes shot over to me. No words were exchanged. The look covered it. When I produced the plain quarter she recovered immediately and gave me a hug for my effort.
My wife watched two pots and two saucepans cooking on the stove and said nothing. Her face said enough.
When everything was ready — mushroom cream sauce, light red sauce, mushroom ravioli, tomato and cheese ravioli — the kids planned their plates like a military operation. Which color sauce. Which macarovi. Which pieces should have the sauce on them. Very serious business. Then they dished themselves, which I think mattered more than anything. No plate arriving in front of them pre-decided. They were in charge of the ratios. That tends to change things.
My son went tomato sauce, tomato and cheese ravioli, no looking back. A suggestion that he should try the mushroom pasta was met with a look you might give someone who encourages you to handle wasps with your bare hands. My daughter took a little bit of both pastas, spooned one small dot of red sauce on a single piece, and went to her seat. Two bites later, unprompted, no negotiation, no dessert on the table as leverage - they both asked for more tomato and cheese macarovi. My son finished the red sauce on his own, eating directly out of the saucepan, using his fingers because a spoon just wasn’t fast enough for him. My daughter stayed with plain macarovi and called it good. She finished her quarter of the bread before we had eaten our salads. Then my son offered her a piece of his garlic herb bread. She took it, ate a bite, peeled the herb butter layer cleanly off the top, ate the plain bread underneath, and declared it delicious.
I ate the discarded garlic butter crust off her plate without hesitation.
Then, I did the dishes before my wife got up from the table. She was very grateful.
No tears were shed, the kids had full bellies. Dinner win.