This is not a restaurant. I am not a short-order cook. And other things my mom said to me a lot.

We're sticking to our guns on the same dinner table rules I had as a kid, which I think are totally reasonable and fair: you are not forced to eat anything, but neither will you be served alternate choices. Audrey understands this but is still a tireless negotiator, and uses every procedural method she can think of to stall things and wear us out. Last night, she did not want the casserole, but she did very much want pineapple for dessert. Here was one of her last ditch efforts to avoid eating the required four bites of casserole that would qualify her for dessert:

Scott: Audrey, eat your casserole. This is your last chance. I'm not going to tell you again.

Audrey: I can't right now. My teeth are too tight. I need a band-aid.