The Culinary Critique

“Alright, everyone! Behold, the masterpiece!” Dad announced, beaming, as he slid a bubbling, slightly-too-brown dish onto the table. It was his infamous “special occasion” lasagna, a dish he'd been perfecting (or, as Mom often muttered under her breath, 'experimenting with') for years. Tonight, he'd used 'extra cheese' which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be several different kinds of cheese melting into an ambitious, semi-solid crust.

Little Leo, aged seven, eyed it with the suspicion usually reserved for dentists and the broccoli he was forced to eat. “What *is* that, Dad?” he asked, pointing with a fork.

“That, my boy, is culinary art! It's rich, it's hearty, it's... *Dad's* lasagna!” Dad puffed out his chest.

Leo took a hesitant bite. His face scrunched up slowly, like a crumpled receipt. He chewed, considered, then swallowed with visible effort. “It tastes... like play-doh that's been in the sun,” he declared, matter-of-factly.

A collective gasp went around the table, primarily from Mom, who quickly tried to kick Leo under the table while simultaneously smiling apologetically at Dad. “Leo! That's not nice!” she whispered fiercely.

Dad's smile faltered, replaced by a look of profound betrayal usually reserved for ancient Roman emperors. “Play-doh? Leo, I spent three hours on this!”

“Yeah,” Leo nodded, taking another tiny, brave bite. “But at least play-doh comes in fun colors. This is just... brown. And lumpy. And it has crunchy bits where it shouldn't.” He paused, thoughtful. “Also, it's not as good as Grandma's. Hers doesn't make my mouth feel fuzzy.”

Mom buried her face in her hands. Dad stared at his 'masterpiece' as if it had personally betrayed him. The dog, however, seemed very interested in the 'crunchy bits.' Sometimes, brutal honesty just had to come from the smallest critics. And sometimes, those critics were right.