My children’s friends come over and the first thing they ask me is, “Can I have a muffin?” I’m thrilled they like my muffins, because my damned kids won’t eat them. Zachary will only deign to eat them on the day they are baked, which leads me to wonder if just possibly I have spoiled him
On Sunday night, I mixed all the dry ingredients and all the wet ingredients so that Monday morning I could quickly throw it all together and have fresh muffins for Zach’s lunchbox.
I just can’t figure out how the kids got so spoiled.
On the drive home, I asked him if he had eaten his lunch. “No,” he snapped.
“Why not?”
“It’s the muffins.”
“Was there something wrong with the muffin?” I asked.
“I wish you weren’t a cook!” he burst out. “I wish you didn’t know how to cook! Then I could have machine-made food!”
I’d offer up sage philosophical commentary on this little tirade, except I need to go measure out the flour for tomorrow’s bread.
Wheels on the bus 