Once upon a time or actually more than once, I was a child with big plans. Oh, not the astronaut, nun, veterinarian, special ed teacher, hippie midwife delivering babies on communes, famous writer plans. I had those too.
I had plans that involved a family and meals served to that family. That family had a large number of tidy children (unless of course, they had been out in the creek, woods, playing with the horses or milking the cows-then they would be streaked artfully with dirt, but obligingly wash up for dinner)
That family would then sit down to a meal that everyone liked–every single dish–every single person–every single night. I wouldn’t be like my mother and serve stuff that someone didn’t like! (especially me) Dinners would be beautiful, fabulous, varied, and loved. Children and adults alike would swoon. Seriously, I thought once I had my own home there would never be a meal I didn’t enjoy. I thought because of this, my family would never be served a dish that they didn’t enjoy.
Yes, I apparently had an active fantasy life.