With all due respect to the late pop novelist Eric Segal, who penned the ridiculously inaccurate yet often quoted line, "Love means never having to say you're sorry," I submit the above definition, which proved its validity last night.
That's because we live pretty far west of downtown, we're very busy between work and ferrying the kids around to and from school, activities and the endless calendar full of preschooler birthday parties. Also, one of our kids is about as picky an eater as they come. His major food groups consist of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pizza, Koo Koo Roo's mac n' cheese, plain roast chicken, roast potatoes, the occasional minibox of raisins, and the blankets part of pigs-in-blankets, the latter which must only be made with Applegate Farms mild Italian chicken sausage from Whole Foods, even though he only nibbles at the sausage. Oh, and add to that list anything involving sugar. The other child, while more adventurous in her tastes, still insists she doesn't like Chinese food, though she was witnessed devouring several bowls of wonton soup and dumplings during our traditional Jews-Eat-Chinese-Take-Out-On-Christmas meal (AKA the 11th Commandment).
Despite the kids' tendency to veto any dinner choice I make the mistake of mentioning, I was hoping against hope to force them into enduring an authentic Chinese meal last night, figuring I'd bribe them with the promise of fortune cookies at the end of the meal. (This promise has worked before.) Late Blooming Dad was fully supportive of this idea, and had even been plotting where we'd go (Ocean Star) on the drive out to P.S. the day before, when we zipped past the appropriate exit.