Sunday, January 1, 2006

There's no "Olive Garden" sign over my front door.

My son is a foodie. This was confirmed to me yesterday after this conversation:


Son: What do we have for lunch?


Me: Peanut butter & jelly. Chicken noodle soup. Grilled cheese. Ramen noodles.


Son: Nah....[looks at me with a cheery, hopeful expression] ... I know! I think I'd like some meatballs in marinara sauce!


I had to actually put my hands up to see if a chef's hat had miraculously sprouted out of the top of my head. This child has lived with me for 15 years and still believes that I'm going to hand him a menu before every meal. He ought to know by now that my idea of a fixing a hot meal is pouring a cup of coffee. I think he hopes that some day he'll wake up and I'll be changed into Julia Child.


The boy plans to enlist in the Army at age 18. I can't wait to hear about the first time he says to the mess hall cook, "You know, I don't really feel like having meatloaf today. Do you have any blackened mahi-mahi with a side of fettuccini?" Man, they'll have him doing so many push-ups he'll be grateful for a lima bean on a cracker.


For now, I'm going to lock up all of my cookbooks in the gun safe. I can't have my son reading recipes and getting crazy ideas about crepes for breakfast.

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