I grew up on a rural route outside of La Grange, Kentucky. These are a few stories from those days.
One afternoon, when I was around 15 years old, I volunteered to make dinner for the family. My mother had a really hard day in her shop and I wanted to make life easier on her. I got out one of her cookbooks, looked up a recipe for roast beef with sides, made note of what I needed and made the trip to the grocery store.
I made the meal, destroying the kitchen in the process, set the table and served dinner. How did I do? My mother, two brothers and I, ended up eating fast food. When I put the remains of the meal down for the dogs, they sniffed the food and walked away, leaving their plates untouched.
My father, however, ate two helpings of every thing and complimented me on my cooking.
I told you that story to tell you this one:
Tonight my wife made one of those ready to go pasta dishes. My wife and twin girls ate very little of their pasta, disliking the dish completely. I, on the other hand, ate two helpings.
They say at some point we become our parents. It seems I have arrived.