Breaking Bread
At 5:25 last night, I had supper ready to feed. It wasn’t my weekly cook night, so I simply had to dish out portions for reheating in the microwave. Three glasses of milk were in the fridge with a plate of macaroni and cheese for Abbie. A pan of broccoli was on the stove, waiting for me to turn on the flame at a moment’s notice. A warm bowl of macaroni and cheese was in my hands, ready to feed the boys as soon as I could strap them into their high chairs.
With Ian in the high chair and Tory was in my arms, Ellie walked through the door and announced that she wanted to go out to eat. She had a craving for Italian Chain Restaurant. The origins of that craving are a mystery since we hadn’t been there in two years. The kids make it difficult to visit a sit-down restaurant, plus I found a cheater recipe to emulate their bread thus eliminating the main reason to patronize them. But the bread needs a couple hours to rise, I didn’t have the foresight to start it at 3:25, and she wanted some tonight.
Abbie’s macaroni and cheese stayed in the refrigerator. The broccoli stayed in the pan until I could take care of it when we returned, and joined Abbie’s entrée in the cold. The milk went in the diaper bag. The boys’ macaroni and cheese went in the boys since it was already hot and the boys were unlikely to make it to the restaurant on an empty stomach without melting down. By 5:45, we were on the road.
I prefer having more prep time when eating out so I can have everything ready to go when the kids wake from their nap. That way I can slip coats and shoes on them at the first squawk, whisk them into the car, and be at the restaurant with at least some bread in front of us by the time they realize they’re hungry. That’s critical on weekends when crowds can force long waits, and even longer waits if you insist on a non-smoking table.
Fortunately, last night was a weeknight, so we could slip into a table with no wait. The only people who eat out on weeknights are families with small children enjoying a family night, business travelers who have to eat, and DINKs who have to spend that disposable income spilling out of their wallets. The DINKs must have had their own section,* because they sat us next to a solitary presumed-business traveler, and a family celebrating the birthday of their young child. Poor businessman.
We sat the boys in two high chairs, Abbie in a booster seat, and surrounded the children with adults. I met Ian’s needs, Ellie met Tory’s, and we both made sure Abbie didn’t run away. The waitress brought us bread almost immediately, and we spent most of the time at the table making sure the boys had bread in their mouths, or at least within their reach.
Ellie and I both ordered pasta, which is great for sharing with the kids. Abbie ordered, or had ordered for her, a kid’s meal with broccoli, which we knew she’d eat, spaghetti, which she’d probably eat, and a chicken breast, which she wouldn’t touch possibly because she knew it was the expensive part of the meal.
I always expect the worst when we eat out, but things went surprisingly well. Everyone behaved for close to an hour, at which point they were too bloated on bread and broccoli to remember their manners. We flagged down the server, grabbed our check, and sprinted for the exit. It was a mostly enjoyable experience, but I hope we don’t have to do it again for another two years.
* That area is probably called, “the bar.”
With Ian in the high chair and Tory was in my arms, Ellie walked through the door and announced that she wanted to go out to eat. She had a craving for Italian Chain Restaurant. The origins of that craving are a mystery since we hadn’t been there in two years. The kids make it difficult to visit a sit-down restaurant, plus I found a cheater recipe to emulate their bread thus eliminating the main reason to patronize them. But the bread needs a couple hours to rise, I didn’t have the foresight to start it at 3:25, and she wanted some tonight.
Abbie’s macaroni and cheese stayed in the refrigerator. The broccoli stayed in the pan until I could take care of it when we returned, and joined Abbie’s entrée in the cold. The milk went in the diaper bag. The boys’ macaroni and cheese went in the boys since it was already hot and the boys were unlikely to make it to the restaurant on an empty stomach without melting down. By 5:45, we were on the road.
I prefer having more prep time when eating out so I can have everything ready to go when the kids wake from their nap. That way I can slip coats and shoes on them at the first squawk, whisk them into the car, and be at the restaurant with at least some bread in front of us by the time they realize they’re hungry. That’s critical on weekends when crowds can force long waits, and even longer waits if you insist on a non-smoking table.
Fortunately, last night was a weeknight, so we could slip into a table with no wait. The only people who eat out on weeknights are families with small children enjoying a family night, business travelers who have to eat, and DINKs who have to spend that disposable income spilling out of their wallets. The DINKs must have had their own section,* because they sat us next to a solitary presumed-business traveler, and a family celebrating the birthday of their young child. Poor businessman.
We sat the boys in two high chairs, Abbie in a booster seat, and surrounded the children with adults. I met Ian’s needs, Ellie met Tory’s, and we both made sure Abbie didn’t run away. The waitress brought us bread almost immediately, and we spent most of the time at the table making sure the boys had bread in their mouths, or at least within their reach.
Ellie and I both ordered pasta, which is great for sharing with the kids. Abbie ordered, or had ordered for her, a kid’s meal with broccoli, which we knew she’d eat, spaghetti, which she’d probably eat, and a chicken breast, which she wouldn’t touch possibly because she knew it was the expensive part of the meal.
I always expect the worst when we eat out, but things went surprisingly well. Everyone behaved for close to an hour, at which point they were too bloated on bread and broccoli to remember their manners. We flagged down the server, grabbed our check, and sprinted for the exit. It was a mostly enjoyable experience, but I hope we don’t have to do it again for another two years.
* That area is probably called, “the bar.”
posted by Matt at
11:02 PM
1 Comments:
Oh ... I so know what you mean. Going out with 4 small children is definately WORK! However, it's easier than cooking and cleaning up for everyone. We are trying to break our habit of eating out 3 to 4 nights a week ... and are doing pretty well. Our reason for stopping is not the WORK though, it's the money! Man, that can get expensive, and we felt is was really sad that the kids knew what was on the kids menus for each of about 8 different places we frequent.
Glad everyone left feeling as if it were a good experience, that always makes it nice ... and I bet you won't wait 2 years before doing it again. Will You?
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