Toots told me she would make dinner tonight and I wholeheartedly accepted, thinking she’d put a pile of Flintstone’s vitamins on a plate and call it a day.
But no, she had something else in mind, and as she gathered the items from the fridge, I sat and typed at my computer, marveling at how she’s grown.
I heard various clanging and dinging from the kitchen, as she mixed various ingredients, announcing each one. “Wheat germ,” she reported. “Applesauce. Yogurt.”
Yum! This was turning into some sort of muesli fruit salady thing and I was liking where she was going.
She didn’t need me. She was entirely capable of making dinner herself! And what a healthy choice! And heck, if she can make dinner when she’s four, I can press her into service for baseboard dusting! tax preparation! lawn beautification!
So I browsed some blogs, made a few calls, and pondered life’s mysteries.
And this part is true: I didn’t look in the kitchen. Not even once.
I figured I’d taught her the basics: cut stuff in your palm so you don’t have to wash a cutting board, give the raw onion a good sniff to check if it’s fresh, pour crumbs into anything you’re cooking for added texture.
“All done!” She proudly walked her creation over to me. “Dinner is served!”
She set it on the table in front of me, and it looked pretty good. It did. The whole runny, goopy mess.
Except that she’d made it in a colander.