I have three sons, and sometimes I have to put my credibility on the line with them. This usually happens at the dinner table.
Now, there's nothing that I'm going to put on their plates and serve to them that I don't fully understand the consistency and taste of. Often I help my wife shop for the groceries, and sometimes I even prepare the meals myself. If I give my kids something they're used to, and something they often ask for, I know they're going to be happy. There's no risk in going with the classics.
But man cannot live on PB&J alone.
One evening we served them a ham 'n' cheese quiche. They liked it. They liked it so much, in fact, that they asked for it again a few weeks later. We didn't have all the same ingredients on hand, but we decided to follow the recipe as closely as possible. Instead of sharp cheddar cheese, we used colby-jack. Instead of diced ham chunks, we had deli sliced ham. Instead of heavy cream, we mixed butter and milk. We did the best we could to duplicate the meal we previously experienced success with, and we did so using the ingredients we had on hand. Still, I knew that even though it looked similar, this was not the same meal.
My kids noticed the quiche looked a little different than the one they had a few weeks back, and they asked me point blank- "Are we going to like this?" In that moment I was faced with a choice. I can sell it as being better than the original. I can tell them I trust the ingredients, and that I trust the way their mother chooses to put them together. I can include peripheral facts and figures about consecutive dinners served without burning a meal or breaking a dish, or talk about how we have a higher percentage of organic fruits and grade-A meats in the house than in years' past. I can reference prior meals they've enjoyed in an attempt to convince them that if we've made culinary magic before, we can certainly do it again. I can even go so far as to tell them that this is the best quiche I've made since I've been their dad.
The problem is that if I do all those things, and the quiche doesn't actually taste good, I've gone and lost my credibility completely. The next time I tell my reluctant rugrats that something is delicious in an attempt to get them to give it a try, I run the risk of having them recollect the time I lied to them about the colby-jack quiche that I promised would tantalize their taste buds when it was in fact an average dish, at best.
My other option is to is admit to them that I used different ingredients, and that it may not be what they had originally hoped for. If I do that, they might reject the meal completely, or pick at it halfheartedly before pushing it aside. They'll still come back to the table tomorrow night. They're my kids, and they love good food. Who knows? Maybe they'll even lower their expectations to the point where they can stomach the colby-jack quiche, and make the best of a sub-par meal while remembering that I'm the guy who gave them a good quiche from which to compare all future quiches.
Whatever I decide in that moment, the meal I serve is the ultimate source of truth, and if my statements contradict that truth, then the consequences of the loss of credibility that comes with that contradiction falls squarely on me.
Forks up.
Now, there's nothing that I'm going to put on their plates and serve to them that I don't fully understand the consistency and taste of. Often I help my wife shop for the groceries, and sometimes I even prepare the meals myself. If I give my kids something they're used to, and something they often ask for, I know they're going to be happy. There's no risk in going with the classics.
But man cannot live on PB&J alone.
One evening we served them a ham 'n' cheese quiche. They liked it. They liked it so much, in fact, that they asked for it again a few weeks later. We didn't have all the same ingredients on hand, but we decided to follow the recipe as closely as possible. Instead of sharp cheddar cheese, we used colby-jack. Instead of diced ham chunks, we had deli sliced ham. Instead of heavy cream, we mixed butter and milk. We did the best we could to duplicate the meal we previously experienced success with, and we did so using the ingredients we had on hand. Still, I knew that even though it looked similar, this was not the same meal.
My kids noticed the quiche looked a little different than the one they had a few weeks back, and they asked me point blank- "Are we going to like this?" In that moment I was faced with a choice. I can sell it as being better than the original. I can tell them I trust the ingredients, and that I trust the way their mother chooses to put them together. I can include peripheral facts and figures about consecutive dinners served without burning a meal or breaking a dish, or talk about how we have a higher percentage of organic fruits and grade-A meats in the house than in years' past. I can reference prior meals they've enjoyed in an attempt to convince them that if we've made culinary magic before, we can certainly do it again. I can even go so far as to tell them that this is the best quiche I've made since I've been their dad.
The problem is that if I do all those things, and the quiche doesn't actually taste good, I've gone and lost my credibility completely. The next time I tell my reluctant rugrats that something is delicious in an attempt to get them to give it a try, I run the risk of having them recollect the time I lied to them about the colby-jack quiche that I promised would tantalize their taste buds when it was in fact an average dish, at best.
My other option is to is admit to them that I used different ingredients, and that it may not be what they had originally hoped for. If I do that, they might reject the meal completely, or pick at it halfheartedly before pushing it aside. They'll still come back to the table tomorrow night. They're my kids, and they love good food. Who knows? Maybe they'll even lower their expectations to the point where they can stomach the colby-jack quiche, and make the best of a sub-par meal while remembering that I'm the guy who gave them a good quiche from which to compare all future quiches.
Whatever I decide in that moment, the meal I serve is the ultimate source of truth, and if my statements contradict that truth, then the consequences of the loss of credibility that comes with that contradiction falls squarely on me.
Forks up.
