Picture this: school vacation. Cold night. Home made mac and cheese in the crock pot. I have four 13 year old boys ready for dinner.  I thought to myself, ” let’s cook instead pizza and wings.”  It smelled so good and the boys were up for a change from pizza and wings. My friend Amy gave me this recipe and I have made it 10 times, without incident. Until tonight. I serve the mac and cheese and go up to change my clothes for Zumba class.  I passed on eating dinner because the fat content is at least 15-18 grams per bowl.

Suddenly, Amelia appears at my door.  We have a situation.

One of the boys is bent over my kitchen sink and what remains of his dinner and most likely his lunch too is swirling down my drain. Ugh.  I do NOT  ‘do puke’.  I assess the situation.  The other three boys look somewhat shell shocked and vacate the kitchen table for the family room.  (Unlike girls who would help each other or at least hold back her hair!)

I pull my shirt up over my nose and make sure he is OK.  Then I have to clean up. Just thinking about it as I type this is making me sick.  I just cannot do it. Not now, not ever. Not baby puke, not dog puke, not my roommates puke in 1983. No!

When I was pregnant, I never puked, not once.  I loved my OB/GYN.  He told me to eat a piece of cake with glass of milk every night and he promised I would not get sick…and I never did. (I only gained 19 pounds when I was pregnant). There was one time when I had a Greek Salad and the feta must not have been too good.  I’m sure you get the drift.

So needless to say the boys are gone to another house to sleep over.  I am sure the tale of me ‘poisoning the kids’ will grow bigger and more dramatic as the night goes on.  My son was great…no lecture, no eyes rolling but  I did get a look that begged the question, “Do we EVER have to eat that again?” No Jack, I will NEVER make that again. I will add this to the list of foods that when mentioned, make me heave. We all have them.  A liquor you drank too much of in college or the time you thought that tuna was still good. You know it, we have all been there.

I never got the chance to hear how great dinner was. No glowing accolades of my prowess with a crock pot in the kitchen.  No comments like like, “wow Mrs. L.  is there more?” No, just the empty sound of, well, you know…..

Moral of the story: I should have stuck with what I know.  I made a huge vat of sauce on Sunday, like all good Italians, and I should have made ziti and meatballs.  Lesson learned.