What's for Dinner?

When I was still living in my parents' house, I dreaded dinnertime. We abhorred rice,my siblings and I, and dinnertime invariably meant rice. And so, dinners at our home became not really about the breaking of bread, but an endless tirade on (what we believed as) the poor quality food we were served. Oh, how we wallowed in self-pity. We have suffered for too long, after all.

Every single night, over yet another unpalatable meal, we would complain, endlessly, about the sheer incompetence of the (poor, unsuspecting) cook, and fantasize about pasta, and mashed potatoes, and burgers, and buttered vegetables-- anything, really, so long as it is not rice. Once in a while, one of us would snap out of his sluggishness and make our fantasy a reality. Often, this person would be my brother's girlfriend, who is actually quite the cook. We would then feast on the non-rice meal hungrily, like a pack of vultures. Those nights were the best.

Now that I am living independently from my family and can eat absolutely anything my heart desires, I have realized that my problem with dinner is, really, not so much rice, but the idea of having to sit down to meal at a specific hour every single night regardless of whether my tummy is already grumbling, or still full. My dinners in the past five months were rarely constituted of rice, and yet I still dreaded it with my whole being, much like how a hyperactive toddler dreaded bedtime. What I hated, I now realize, was the very concept of dinner. I apparently despise this routine. The toddler refuses to be tucked into bed at seven. He wants to sleep only when he is sleepy! Clarise refuses to be tucked into a dining chair at seven. She wants to eat only when she is hungry! Well, you know what? I think Clarise will do just that.

Declaration of Independence Item 1: Clarise shall eat only what she wants, only when she wants.:)

Ms. Cranky

When I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, I relinquish a significant amount of control to the universe, and my day becomes all about this hopeless power struggle. I wish to claim autonomy over my life, and the universe wishes to push me around and poke fun at me. As the day progresses, I become increasingly cranky, disgruntled, and, most of all, stupid. I mean really, which person in her right mind dares take part in a tug-o-war with the cosmos?

Exactly.

Gelassenheit.

We call it odious

Blame it on my shelteredness and innocence (and therefore on my stupidity) but I choose to be adamant in my belief that, more often than not, what we suspect as unctuousness and forced familiarity could very well be just friendliness- sincere, well-meant, and wholehearted friendliness- pure and simple. I wonder about this intense aversion to congenial behavior. I wonder about this inclination to think the worst in people. A smile too many or too eager, or a story a tad too revealing for our comfort, and a person is suddenly a social pariah. This is exasperating! Not everyone is out to get us; some people are actually quite decent. Some people actually mean well. Why, then, do we put up a defense so impenetrable, so unforgiving, so fatal? Why do we refuse to let anybody in without a fight?

Why does mankind choose to persecute itself?