Contrary to what my family will tell you, I am a good cook. I like fresh ideas, new recipes and anything that calls for a half-cup of shallots.

Sadly enough, my culinary skills fall on unappreciative palates.

To put it mildly, my family is hard to cook for.My beloved spouse of many years doesn't care for his veggies. He's not a big fan of potatoes, thinks that noodles are "filler food" and will gag at the mere mention of chives.

The children aren't much better. One of them likes only hamburger, another won't eat bread, and still another thinks the best meals are served in a paper wrapper and come with a side of fries.

It's difficult at best. Take the other night for instance, when I decided to whip up a fine batch of soup. I kept my husband's preferences inmind and ground up the vegetables so that he would have no idea that he was consuming beta carotene. I added a few potatoes to satisfy the youngest, filled the pot with hamburger for the beefy child, and served it in to-go cups for the child who prefers his food fast.

Themeal wasmet with a complex series of responses.Although they arrived in work clothes, gymshorts and worn-out sneakers, you would have thought my family was a group of highly paid food critics with valued opinions.

They gathered 'round the homespun meal and sized it up with culinary commentary that consisted of, but wasn't limited to, "Well, that just looks nasty."

Although the "to go" child actually took a cup with him, and my husband said he didn't really mind my soup, the reviews of my meal weren't comforting. Therefore, I tossed in the towel and vowed to anyone who would listen that I would never cook again.

Surely such a statement would have shocked Martha Stewart's viewing audience and rocked Julia Child's world.Yet,my family shrugged it off. Since they've lived withmy threats to quit cooking before, they took it with a grain of salt.

But I was determined that this night would be different. "In order for you people to learn to appreciate all of the work that goes into a good meal," I said as I stood on my salt box, "we're going to let you cook a meal for yourselves."

The very next day, I sat my charges down and placed a recipe book in front of them. "You fine youngmen will be in charge of tonight's dining," I said as I doled out the recipe books. "You'll plan the meal, do the shopping and then sit back and see what it's like to endure the criticism."

My heart sank when they chose chicken fried steak as their evening meal. Small beads of sweat began to form on my brow as they chose mashed potatoes as a side dish and my hands trembled as I thought of the mess they'd make as they created homemade biscuits.

Armed with their list and a little too much enthusiasm, they pushed their carts through the store in a frenzy.Whistling and singing as they went, they made their way up the aisles and only stopped long enough to rethink their ingredients and to clobber each other upside the head. They made their purchases, and faster than you can say "Bob's your uncle," they headed home to start their culinary calamity.

By the time they'd finished cooking the meal, the kitchen looked as if a flour bag had been slaughtered. The counter tops were covered with spices and rubbish and enough stray ingredients to make Colonel Sanders choke on his secret recipe.

Skipping the parsley and any attempt at presentation, the boys plunked a mound of something that may or may not have been a chicken fried steak onto a plate, and in the way of highly paid food critics with valued opinions, they gathered 'round to evaluate their project with colorful observations.

"What do you think?" one of themasked.

"I think that someone has to try it," answered another.

"I'm not gonna try it," said the youngest as he wrinkled up his nose.

"Well, I'm not gonna try it. You try it."

They were passing the plate around like it was a hot potato, and finally the eldest looked in my direction, "I know, let's get Mom. She'll eat anything."

"Yeah," said another child, "she even eats her own stuff."

I looked at the mess, I looked at the meal, and I recognized the look on their little faces and understood their need for approval.

"Well," I said as I dug deep for my best and most enlightened culinary commentary, "I'll be honest with you boys … this meal just looks nasty."

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.