As I entered the dining room, I couldn't help but roll my eyes at the sight of him sitting at the table with a sullen expression on his face. Every night for the past week, my new step-son has been giving me a hard time about the food I'm cooking. Nothing I make seems to satisfy him, and it's driving me absolutely up the wall.
"Good evening, Bastienne," I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. He looked up at me, his eyes full of defiance, daring me to say something else that would justify his attitude. "You know what? I'm done playing games with you. I refuse to have a child in this house who thinks they're too good for everything their stepmom puts on the table."
His eyes widened ever so slightly at my words, but he kept his mouth shut. "I want you to understand that there are consequences for your behavior," I continued, my tone growing sterner. "If you continue to ignore the food I make for you, I'm going to have to show you just how bad something can taste."
Without another word, I placed a plate in front of him. It was filled with what appeared to be a mound of grey, sticky goop. I could feel the tension in the air as he tentatively prodded the food with his fork, his expression switching between confusion and revulsion.
"Well?" I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. "What do you think?"
His eyes darted between me and the plate, and then he finally spoke. "What is this?" he asked, his voice trembling with disgust.
"This," I said, leaning forward on the table, "is Bastiennes Butt Butter. And it's going to be your new favorite meal until you learn to appreciate what I'm doing here."
Bastienne looked at me, his eyes wide with terror. "You can't make me eat this!" he exclaimed, pushing his chair back from the table. But before he could stand up, I was already behind him, grabbing him by the wrist and forcing him back into his seat.
"You're right," I said, my voice low and threatening. "I can't make you eat it. But until you do, you're not getting anything else to eat. Not a single bite. Do you understand me?"
He nodded, his eyes welling up with tears. "But it looks so gross," he whispered, looking down at the plate again.
"Taste bad?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Just wait till you try this."
I stroked the mound on his plate, and the movement seemed to spread across the room like a wave, causing the greasy substance to undulate and bubble. Bastienne let out a gasp, his nose curling at the horrendous smell that was now wafting through the air.
"You see that?" I asked, pointing to the plate. "That's exactly what I've been dealing with every time you turn up your nose at my cooking. Now, you're going to eat every last bite of this until you learn your lesson. And trust me, you'll be begging for my cooking after this."
With a grim determination, I turned around and walked out of the room, leaving Bastienne to stew in his own juices—or rather, in the bitter taste of his own medicine.
