Planned menu: Peppercorn crusted Filet Mignon with Port Sauce, Creamy Parmesan Orzo, and Peppery Green Beans. Mmmmmmm.

Actual menu: Red Baron Taco Pizza. Mm-hmm.

But, when such lovely conversation accompanies the meal, who really cares what you're eating. Examples? You want examples, eh? Well, lucky for you, I'm right here at my blog... blogging, you know.

Punk: It's spicy! It's too spicy!!
Dadders: Do you want some sauce on it?
Punk: Yeah.
Me: Yes, please.
Punk: Yes, please.
(Aaron dumps a blop of Ranch on Punk's plate and we all carry on.)

Punk (has finished his first piece of pizza, indicates remaining blop): Mom... Can I lick this off my plate?
Me: No.
Punk: Oh. ... Can I have another piece of pizza then?
(Aaron, smirking, gets another slice for him and we all carry on.)

Pea (whining): Uuuuunnnn! Uuuuuunnnngh!!!!!!!! Gab-kih pleee.
(I hand her a napkin.)
Punk: I'm not getting messy because I'm holding this by the breast.
Me: Uuuuh? What, Honey?
Punk: I'm not getting dirty because I'm holding this by the BREAST!
Me: Oh. You're holding it by the crust?
Punk: Yes. I'm holding it by the cccrrrruuusssttt.
Me: Mm-hmm.

After dinner:
Punk: Can we play a game?
Dadders: Sure. What do you want to play, Punk?
Punk: I wanna play... mmm... CHECK-UPS!!!!
Dadders: Hmm. Can you show me?
(Punk indicates the box of games he received for Christmas--includes Old Maid, Tic-Tac-Toe, Dominoes, and...)
Dadders: Oh, you want to play checkers?
Punk: Yeah! Yeah! I wanna play CHECKERS!!! ... Pea can't play. She's too leetle.

The other day:
Punk: Mom, when I was 2, I was brown like Pea. When she turns 3, she'll turn white like me.

That should be interesting!!!