Did Someone Order the Pupu Platter?

After a marathon holiday stint of Honey Baked Ham, Mormon potatoes and The Food Network, I decided to make parmesan chicken, sauteed gnocchi and steamed vegetables for dinner. My kids are pretty good eaters, but like most preschoolers their palates are finely honed to sponge bob fruit snacks, otter pops and Lucky Charms. Anything new elicits an immediate yuck response. But following multiple timeouts, various hostage negotiation techniques and peanut M&M bribes, they usually choke their way through most of my meals. This most recent dinner fiasco however will set us back a ways I'm sure.

Just as I'm sliding the parmesan poultry into the oven my 4 year old son says "Mom, I smell diarrhea."(Now there's one for his scrap book). Since the entire family spent a good portion of last week recovering from the dreaded Delhi Belly I immediately think he's had a relapse and cautiously approach the couch to survey the damage. I'm pleasantly surprised to find I won't be donning my HAZMAT suit or even busting out the shop vac for a quick once over. But by now I too am noticing a funky stank permeating the air so I crack the window and blanket the room with a generous layer of Oust spray. A few minutes later Mr. Congeniality sticks both index fingers up his nose, to the 2nd knuckle no less, and claims the stench is starting to "itch" his eyes. With my squinted eyes watering and nose running I desperately empty the garbage, jam a lemon down the roaring disposal and look under the fridge for rat corpses and a week old chile verde burrito.

When the stinging aroma approaches intolerable levels I hesitantly snap back his napping sister's britches with a tupperware tangerine peeler but find no green apple nasties lurking in there either. Only after removing the entree from the oven do I realize the stinking sewer smell is none other than...my dinner. Bon Appetit!

So, to all of you unfortunate recipients of my complimentary cooking, my deepest condolences.