Not My DNA

My kids can’t be my own flesh and blood.  They can’t have my DNA.  If they did, they’d like pork chops.  I grew up on pork chops.  We’re mostly German, for Pete’s sake.  It’s schnitzel.


I hate making dinner that no one–but me–wants to eat.   There’s no reason for them to pick at their chops.  They were good.  I ended up eating all three.  Yes.  They were that good.

I can understand if I’d cooked with caraway, or simmered the chops in sauerkraut or slapped some red cabbage on their plates, letting it touch the pork chops.  But I did not.  No food groups touched other than some pilaf against the meat, but that’s okay.  Pilaf is friendly.  Pilaf isn’t a trouble maker.

And when did my youngest decide he’d never eat pig again?  Why must we only have turkey bacon now?  How can he be so sensitive about pigs?  (“They’re the smartest animal, Mom.  Pigs have the intelligence of a three year old.”)

No, they don’t.  My dad spent his summers in Indiana working on his aunt and uncle’s pig farm and those hogs were dangerous.   Apparently hogs will eat anything in front of them.  Including people.  And fellow hogs.

Three year olds don’t eat people.


Am I to really stop serving porkchops?  What about grilled porkchops?  And porkchop casserole?  What will life be like without those staples?

I’m deeply troubled.  And worried.

Who has ever heard of turkey chops?  And turkey chop casserole?  What is this world coming to?

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