My inner Bree

I've only seen a couple of episodes of Desperate Housewives. My taste in bad television runs more toward examinations of the quotidien lives of very short people and families with 16 kids.

But I do remember one scene: Bree is coldly serving her miserable family something like beef Wellington or pheasant under glass. Husband, daughter, son are all seated around a formal table with candles and china and linen. One of them whines, "Mom, why can't we ever eat real food, like pizza?"

I never set the table with linens and china. I never cook pheasant. In fact, I often stick to one-dish meals. But, deep down, I know that sometimes my desire to put a "real" meal in front of my family is more about me -- and more about Bree -- than it is about my kids.

(The kids who are now done with their waffles and ready to get dressed, so that's all for now.)