When I was about four years old, I announced that I would pack my father’s lunch for work. The question of why my parents didn’t supervise this process is a fair one, but clearly, I inspired more than my fair share of trust.

When my father got to work, he opened his lunch pail to find three apples and a salt shaker.

(I think it’s also fair to ask why he didn’t hear three apples and a salt shaker rattling around, but that’s another question for another day.)

But everything that goes around comes around. While I was in Missouri, reuniting with old college friends and assorted family members, my husband was at home and announcing that he would choose the week’s menu and do the grocery shopping.

I returned to find the following menu taped to the fridge: BBQ chicken sandwiches and fries. Sausage sandwiches and fries. French dip sandwiches and fries.

If anyone in our house wants a vegetable this week, they’ll have to go out to the courtyard and eat grass or lick the fuzzy green stuff off the old cheese in the back of the fridge.

Maybe Dad still has those apples...