Protest

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt

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If you are as fed up with the whole political scene as I am, you won’t go there with today’s prompt. So, where to go? What to say? Hmmmm. How about a little story?

Once there was a little boy who was most particular about his food. He liked his plate to be arranged in such a way that no one serving of food touched any other food on his plate. He didn’t like it if there wasn’t much color. He objected if the gravy leaked out of the little volcano he built with his mashed potatoes, because then it might TOUCH the PEAS! Oh, the world just couldn’t handle such a catastrophe.

The boy’s mother did her best to be patient, and tried to appease his conviction that dire results would ensue if any of his food touched any other of his food. Maybe his name was Monk. I don’t know. (Those of you who enjoyed that series will know what I mean.)

One day his mother, not thinking of Finnicky Freddy ( it’s my story; I can name him whatever I please), decided to make a pot of stew. Yummy beef, carrots, potatoes, onions and other flavorful herbs went into the pot and simmered for the better part of the day.

The aroma was heavenly.

FF came trotting into the kitchen, sniffing with a questionable air, and asked what Mommy was making for dinner.

“We’re having stew, FF,” said Mommy, with a smile. She patted FF on the head and went about her business.

“Stew?” queried FF, with an upward whine on the word. “You mean where all the food is cooked all together in one pot? REALLY? What will I eat? How can you make something you KNOW will hurt my feelings and make my cry? Can I get a comfort dog? I’ll starve to death! Oh, dear. What will the neighbors think when they find out you tried to feed me something I don’t like? Mommy, WHAT were you THINKING?”

Image result for picky eater child cartoons

Now, Mommy had been very patient with all this nonsense, but she was understandably weary with FF’s continual whining about potatoes touching carrots or carrots touching lettuce or lettuce touching a pork chop. She decided she needed to take a stand.

Much to FF’s shock and awe, Mommy said, “Freddy! That’s ENOUGH! You are wearing me out with your pickiness, and I’m not going to put up with it any more! You’d better come to the table tonight ready to eat what’s on your plate, and NO MORE WHINING!”

Boohooing at the top of his lungs, FF ran out of the room and took solace in his favorite video game. He wasn’t worried. He’d already won this battle more times than he could remember. Mommy would soon remember who was in charge.

So he was, again, full of shock and awe when the family gathered to eat their supper, and his plate looked Just. Like. Everyone. Else’s. The food was all piled up together, and although it looked yummy and smelled amazing, it was a matter of principle. If he gave in on this one, he would never be able to re-establish his authority.

He crossed his arms and glared at Mommy. “I can’t eat this slop!”

At which moment, Daddy, not usually a player in this drama, stood up and picked FF up by his armpits, holding him off the ground. He said, “Freddy, you will NOT criticize your mother’s cooking, ever again! You are a rude a selfish child, and your reign of terror is over. You will either eat, or you will sit there quietly while the rest of us eat. You will go to bed hungry if you choose not to eat. And that is the way it’s going to be from now on!”

Well. Poor little Finnicky Freddy hardly knew how to respond. He opened his mouth wide to let out a howl, but Daddy said, “Don’t! Stop it, right now!” And something in Daddy’s face told Freddy that maybe he’d better stuff it. So he did.

It took three meals before Freddy got hungry enough to submit to the new order. At first, he made quite a show of separating his food so nothing touched, but his new parents simply removed his plate and told him to go to bed. He was astonished. He was angry. He was confused.

He wished his parents had done this a long time ago.

The End.

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