“Amma, what’s for dinner?” must be the most asked question in my home. That is, after “Can we go to the mall this weekend?” and “Can I have a sleepover tonight?” Understandably, I am more enthusiastic about this question and give detailed answers as opposed to the mono syllabic and hefty ‘NO’ I reserve for the other two.

The query came my way yesterday too. “Chappathi with minced broccoli mixed right into the atta, chicken breast and veggie stir fry and moong dal sprout salad. And you can wash it all down with a glassful of low sodium tomato juice! I’ll add some sugar to your kids’ glasses if you’d like it,” I announced with all the enthusiasm of Yashodha presenting a couple of butter balls to Baby Krishna. Unfortunately, they took the news like Kamsa did upon being told that his eighth nephew had deadly plans for his uncle!

A couple of minutes of very weighty silence ensued, to be broken immediately by a heated discussion in whispers between dad and daughters. Extended to their max, my ears just about managed to catch snatches of, “OD-ing on health magazines…”…. “why did you say she gained weight,”…  “not fit into new jeans”… and “…aunty saw my lunch box”… “she’s doing it again…”

Let me fill you up on the background. It was one of those days when I am suddenly consumed by guilt that I am not feeding my family right. This usually follows random events like the annual visit to the doctor for a general check-up, laying hands upon a health magazine, or merely running into an old friend who looks smugly svelte as she did twenty years back.

Soon I go into overzealous mode and the family makes a run for it if they can. Suddenly the food from the school cafeteria turns most appetizing and the man of the house volunteers to cook dinner. This time the guilt attack was triggered by a caustic… err... I mean casual, remark from a friend about the contents of my kids’ lunch boxes. Net result: GUILT. Big time remorse that, as a conscientious mother, I wasn’t feeding my children, and the family at large, well balanced meals.

And with that little back ground filler, we are back into the current scenario.

The heated discussion soon gave way to hurried murmurs of “You do it,” and “No you do it.”

It looked like dad came up with the short straw this time. “You know you’ve been working too hard. Making chappathi is hard work. You need a break. Why don’t you just sit back, relax, order pizza, enjoy a foot massage, and watch a movie tonight?”

Note how he slipped in that pizza right between two of my favorite things? Sort of glided over it, with great emphasis on the massage. Did he think I would fall for it this time too?

I gave the hopeful trio the choicest of looks I reserve specially for such occasions and proceeded to give them a lecture on the merits of eating healthy. It was not in vain that I had practically memorized ‘Count your Calories or Count your Days.’  I must have been scintillating that day. No one came back with an argument.

Dinner that night was a very quiet affair. By the end of it, we had managed to get through four jugs of water and there were enough leftovers for lunch and dinner the next day. Wow! I didn’t have to cook for a day.

That night I kept alternatively waking up to the sound of rumbles and growls and dreaming about the fridge door constantly opening and closing. I wonder why.