Too funky

I live in a house full of picky eaters. I've long since resigned myself to the reality that Jim dislikes some of my favorite dinners, like shepherd's pie and chicken divan. Lately, though, I've grown frustrated as our dinner options have dwindled due the smaller finicky parties getting more outspoken about those various ingredients which are out of favor with them.

So the other day, I asked Jim and Jimmy to thumb through a cooking magazine and choose a new recipe to try. They both seemed enthusiastic about a slow-cooked fruity pork roast with cranberries, golden raisins, lemon and apple. I was enthusiastic, too, because we still haven't gotten our new range and I'm depending on my crockpot, microwave and electric griddle to get us through to the delivery date of Wednesday.

Tonight as we sat down to dinner, Jimmy took a bite of the pork and said, "Mom, I don't like this. It tastes funky."

I couldn't help myself; I busted out singing, "Get down tonight, get down tonight."

"No, Mom. Not that kind of funky."