The other night, after the beef-stew debacle (the kids didn't really have dinner that evening, unless you count pie and ice cream) we took a break and went out for pizza.
At the restaurant, in between bites of a slice, Nina said, "Remember that time daddy tried to make pizza," recalling one of my complete failures in the kitchen. "If you had to chose between last night's stew and my pizza, which would you rather eat?" I teased her.
She paused for a very long time before sheepishly saying, "a little bit of stew." Ouch.