I Wouldn't Quite Say Gloating But...

So, to understand this story, you really need to know three things:

1. I am unfortunately a fairly (okay, very) picky eater, and there are many things that I do not enjoy that my husband claims as proof that I am probably a Russian spy such as apple pie, ice cream (except for one flavor at Cold Stone), chicken fried steak, etc.

2. The thing that I hate that sets me aside from all others though would have to be my lifelong dislike of all things potatoes. Yes, that includes french fries, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, potato salad, hash browns, tater tots, scalloped potatoes, and any other kind you can think of to ask me. I tolerate potato chips, but that is as close as I get.

3. My ongoing dislike of potatoes has always been met with great shock and often disbelief by those who learn this fact for the first time. I am not sure why it is more strange to dislike potatoes than, say, tomatoes, but the fact remains that this has singled me out as weird for my whole life (as if I didn't already know this people).

Okay, fast forward to this Sunday. During Sunday School, while of course paying complete attention to our story in Acts, my mind wandered to the inevitable question that I get every Sunday as we drive home: "What should we do for lunch?" Instead of the normal back and forth of "I don't care, what do you want" that we usually play for a good half an hour or so, I decided to be proactive and came up with a plan. We would share a meal from Boston Market. It is very Southern Baptist traditional Sunday lunch fare, and it is directly on our way home. So, we loaded up with half a chicken, mashed potatoes, and some mac and cheese, and the three of us went home to eat our lovely meal.

We got Robby out of his nice shirt and put some of each of the items we purchased on his tray along with some apples and gave him his baby spork. He happily ate the mac with his spork and messed with the chicken (I wouldn't necessarily call it eating the chicken, but he moved it around a lot). He got tired of the spork about the same time he turned his attention to the mashed potatoes. Before ever trying a bite, he enjoyed squashing them in his hands to feel the interesting texture. Finally, he was ready to try a bite.

Both Bryan and I were watching this moment with interest to see if he would take after his Mommy or his Daddy. The potatoes went in the mouth and immediately came back out with a vigorous head shaking indicating a clear dislike of the food at hand. I was pretty happy with this, but he has done the same thing before only to be contentedly munching on the same food a few minutes later, so I was not ready to claim clear victory. Then, something entirely new happened. He held out his hands to us, clearly indicating that he could go no further with his meal until the offending potatoes were completely cleaned off.

Oh sweet boy, how truly I understand that need. There is nothing worse than a container of perfectly good mac and cheese ruined by my husband's potato fork dipped carelessly into the mac leaving behind small bits of potato just waiting for unsuspecting me to put them into my mouth expecting nothing more than a nice bite of mac. Upsetting to say the least. Hands covered in potato would definitely contaminate any other bites that might be ventured. Needless to say, I washed them right off for him.

Thus, I am proud to say that I am not the only person in the family who naturally dislikes potatoes though whether or not my husband's persuasive skills will one day convince Robby to go to the dark side remains to be seen I fear...