Cooking Disasters Five Bucks . . . Five Bites

In some families, parents pay kids for chores.

Good grades. Athletic ability. Kindness to a particularly annoying sibling. Or for a job well done. Sometimes, it’s a flat out bribe. “Please take the dead mouse out to the trash,” shrieked while perched on top of a chair and hubs was away on business. For the record – the price escalated to thirty bucks before I had any takers that night. 

Confident parents can readily admit the effectiveness of bribery in an overall child-rearing plan. In our house, we instituted a policy of remuneration (and antacid tablets) for the willingness to try foods that might end up being digestively unpleasant. Inadvertently unpleasant. It’s not as though I set out to torture them. Except that one time involving quinoa.  

Hence, the rule of five bucks for five bites. My girls could refuse the money. And the dinner. Peanut butter was readily available– purchased by the case. But accepting the challenge– the culinary odyssey of the evening –– meant going the distance. Five bites. No less. Healthy bites, not nibbles. No show of fear when the meatloaf oozed. No panicking when the appetizer round involved a fire extinguisher. Power through was our motto. Wimps need not apply.  

My intentions: create an edible dish. But edible is such a subjective term. After two decades doling out fivers equal to at least a year of in-state tuition, my girls survived their childhood. Through a genetic miracle or the serious possibility they were switched at birth, they can actually cook now as adults!

In hindsight, I can safely confirm that little things matter. Details– like measuring. That danger lurks in the false sense of bravado one feels when the recipe is ‘easy’. A dash of spice that probably shouldn’t be there. Me thinking– what if it turns out GREAT? After two decades, I’m here to confirm– it won’t. In the meantime, a little bribery never killed anyone. At least not at our house.