I know, I know.
I should have sprung that on you more gently, perhaps with a little warning first. I do hope you were sitting down.
The boy lives on Nacho Cheese Doritos, Hot Pockets, and diet Pepsi Max, with an occasional outing to Burger King for 87 Rodeo Cheeseburgers. Amazingly, he’s not the size of a planet … probably because of that wise diet cola decision.
The boy doesn’t cook. Has never. Doesn’t have the first clue. Not the first.
Sometimes, SOMETIMES, a cooked meal will materialize that he can partake of. Once in a very great while, roused by either a suffocating sense of guilt or an uncharacteristic burst of energy, I cook. Himself cooks more often. It’s fair to say that Himself is the cookiest one here. But I’m the bakiest.
So it’s a legitimate strategy for the boy to wander downstairs at some point and start lobbying for dinner.
“Doesn’t chili sound good?”
It soon became obvious that neither of us was rising to the bait today (Himself has been busily playing with watches for most of the day, while I have been very industrious drinking coffee and watching House reruns on t’internets). However, in a one small step/giant leap kind of moment, he allowed me to talk him through putting a pot of chili together in the slow cooker.
I started small.
He opened cans of beans, tomatoes and corn and dumped them in. He balked at the Carroll Shelby chili mix package, with its confusing paragraphs of directions, and several small packets of seasonings.
Too fast. I was moving too fast.
I talked him through the chili mix packets, and as he’s stirring it all up, a slow grin starts to light up his face. He tastes. Then he starts improvising.
Suddenly, he’s a chef. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.
And it was GOOD.
I’m SO proud. 😀