(*the not-so-pretty reality of a mother who does eventually reach her breaking point*)
Pie. That's what.
One of them is filled with chicken and carrots in a white sauce, and the other is filled with apples, sugar, and cinnamon. If you complain about the first pie, I will break your femurs. If you are good little boys and girls and eat up your nutritious, delicious chicken pot pie, you will be rewarded with another pie.
If anybody says anything at all containing the words "wow" (in a sarcastic tone) or "whatever" (in a teen tone), there will be a rolling pin thrust through one of these windows.
And, no. There are no side dishes of chicken fingers, or smiley face french fries, or salad, or roasted cauliflower, or spinach with strawberries and toasted almonds.
This crust began its preparation at 6:30 this bloody morning. There really wasn't time for any of that other stuff, and besides, going without those lovely side dishes will not kill us, whereas other certain, particular actions just might.
Tonight, we eat PIE.