I can cook. Let me be clear here: I can throw down a confit de canard with spiced peach marmalade and a side of braised escarole with — look, I deserve a TV show. I’m that good.
Unless you’re a kid.
For kids’ cuisine, I’m egregiously overqualified. If I laid a nice plate of maple-glazed pork loin with a beet and goat cheese salad down before you, a grown up with an established and sensitive palate, you’d swoon. You’d lick the plate, then lick the inside of your mouth. You’d lick your own tongue. But my kids?
Boy: What the heck, dad?
Girl: You know we’re not French, right?
Boy: Is this even real food?
Girl: I’m calling mom.
Or, say, I knock out a sweet coq au vin with a side of braised Brussels sprouts, chopped walnuts, and prosciutto.
Boy: What is this?
Me: Coq au vin — chicken with wine.
Girl: ARE YOU TRYING TO GET US DRUNK?
Boy: Why are these cabbages so small? What did you do to them?
Me: Look, it’s just braised —
Girl: STOP BRAISING THINGS! We hate braise!
Boy: What’s in braise?
Me: Look, when you ate the duck last week —
Together: WE ATE A DUCK!?
Me: Yeah, confit de canard. It means duck cooked in its own fat.
Girl: I’m gonna throw up.
Boy: WHAT ELSE DID WE EAT?
Me: Well, this is rooster.
Together: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: Yeah, and there were the goat burgers.
Together: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: Raccoon casserole.
Together: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Me: Parakeet, skunk, badger, wombat, freshwater octopus, varmint —
Together: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!
The next day, the boy comes home from school and races into the house.
“Dad, dad, dad — what’s for dinner?!”
“Spaghetti.”
“No, that won’t work.”
“OK, wait a minute — you love spaghetti.”
“I do love spaghetti, but I told my friends about all the gross stuff you cook. They can’t wait to hear what you make next!”
“I’m making spaghetti.”
“Lame.”
“With snake.”
“Now we’re talking.”
“And pickled badger nostrils —”
“Yes!”
“— wombat knuckles —”
“Yes!”
“— jellied barnacles —”
“My favorite!”
“— and platypus drool.”
A week later, I am, again, fed up with pandering to the gustatory trailer park of family’s preferred cuisine; a groaning serving board heaped to the rafters with hot dogs, hamburgers, plain chicken breast, and taco dinners. I need to throw down. I need to get my chef on. I go buy a rabbit, some parsnips, chestnuts, and mushrooms. I’m elbow deep in a pan full of râble de lapin avec duxelle when the kid comes home from school.
“What smells so good?”
“Fruit bat.”
“Oh my god, that sounds delicious,” he says, winking dramatically like a vaudeville hack.
“Stuffed with shriveled yak spleen and toasted pencil erasers.”
“Yes!” More winking.
“Here, taste this.” I shove a steaming chunk of parsnip in his mouth.
“Roasted zombie finger bone.”
“This. Is. Delicious.”
“Well don’t tell anyone — fruit bat is illegal.”
“I’m gonna be the most popular kid in school!”
Bull Garlington lives in a standard two kids, wife, dog, corner-lot, two-car dream package. He drives a 2003 Camry, sports a considerable notebook fetish, and smokes Arturo Fuente Partaga Maduros at the Cigar King as often as possible. His stories have appeared in Florida, Orlando, Orlando Weekly, Catholic Digest, Retort, Another Realm, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, South Lit, and other magazines. His short story collection, “King of the Road,” is available on Amazon. His column “My Funny Life,” was nominated for a national humor award. He is the author of the infamous anti-parenting blog, Death By Children; the anti-writing blog, Creative Writer Pro; and co-author of “The Beat Cop’s Guide to Chicago Eats.”
