That is the moral of the story, at least at my house. My sons are grown, mostly, and though one still lives at home they travel around the sun on their own orbits and spin on their own axes (that looks weird, but I think it's right). But now and then, they do actually Eat Here, and as I've mentioned before, they more or less defined the virtual menu for the virtual restaurant I will almost certainly never open. If you ask them what they want for supper, or if it happens to be someone's birthday and they have the inalienable right to pick, they will ask for That Chicken.
That Chicken is a recipe I suspect my mother got out of one of those infamous women's mangazines to which I have also alluded. This is how you make it:
Crush a bag of cheap, rgular potato chips until they are nearly subatomic particles. Kids love this part. If you let them just smash the chips right in the bag, or roll over the bag with a rolling pin, they are delighted, and the pieces are usually still not small enough. Dip boneless, skinless chicken breasts into melted butter or margarine, roll in the chips, and place in a baking dish. Bake at 350 or so until they're nicely browned and done all the way through, about half an hour or so.
Your kids will love That Chicken and into their teens and beyond will ask you to make it. You might even have to beg them NOT to ask you in front of people you think may respect you as a cook. That's all from Eat Here tonight, but then, it's probably plenty.