I don’t ask for much in the way of affirmation. As Mama, one of the many responsibilities expected of me is exhortation of the clan. I am the ‘Jack Handy’ of our home and family. Feeling low? I’ve got a lap and a hug for you. Achieve something noteworthy? I’ve got a high five and a celebratory dinner for you. Angry at your sibling? I’ve got an admonition of patience for you. Have an aspiration or dream? I’ve got the push to keep you trying. I’m all about support.
And in return, all I ask is a little grace.
Like, when I attempt to make a low-sugar version of homemade cranberry sauce to go with a fantastic chicken and stuffing dinner, and it is maybe a little on the sour side, that you don’t have to turn it into a dare at the table.
I’m not saying that you have to fall over with untruthful flattery about it. And heck, you don’t even have to eat it. But I don’t think it is necessary for each person at the table to challenge the person next to them to see if they can ‘man up and eat a bigger spoonful’ than the person before them. And no, the extra credit for seeing if you could hold it in your mouth longer before you swallow it was not cute.
And I don’t think it’s necessary to compare my culinary attempt to Warhead Candy (the one with the triple ‘X’ on the wrapper).
And the jokes about burning ulcers in your esophagus are unwarranted.
And the selfie you took with your cranberry-puckered duck face is not attractive.
I’m not asking for much, you don’t need to ask for the recipe, as if you want to make it too. And you don’t have to lie to me that you are allergic to Cranberries. But the crack about your urinary tract never having been healthier was uncalled for.
And no, I won’t make a batch for you to take to the firehouse as a prank.
But I know some people who, when opening their lunchboxes at school and at work tomorrow, will find NOTHING BUT jars of homemade, low-sugar Cranberry Sauce from Hell.
With love, your favorite Sour Puss.
Mama Boe 