No more complaining! Your mother slaved over a crowded Central Market prepared foods counter to provide you with this dinner. So I don’t care that the meatloaf has “some kinda green flecks in it” or that you “weren’t expecting bacon to be in the macaroni.” Who complains about surprise bacon?! Now shush and eat, because the sooner you eat, the sooner bedtime happens. And the sooner bedtime happens, the sooner I can watch Breaking Bad, which *must* happen before the texts start rolling in like “can you believe that such-and-such happened?” or “lame ending, huh?” or “why did I let you talk me into watching this? I take back the stuff I said about you having good taste, and didn’t you once make me buy a Faster Pussycat album?” So chop chop kids, Dad has a cultural event to observe.