In an effort to empower my boys, I have been teaching them a little autonomy, bit by bit, in the kitchen. Under supervision, they can put a pizza in the oven after placing their choice of toppings on flattened dough and throw together Kraft macaroni and cheese with its ¼ cup of milk, butter, and processed cheese powder. On their own, they can make a handful of items: Top Ramen, turkey sandwiches, waffles with peanut butter, Hot Pockets, and the recently added hotdog. So Wednesday evening, after selecting the new menu item, nine-year-old Alex, independent of my assistance, proudly announced while carefully preparing his meal, "And now for the pièce de résistance, chocolate syrup!"
"Excellent," I murmured, not really attending to his comment. A couple of minutes later, I finally processed his statement (chalk it up to my interpreter brain where I lag behind, digging beneath words and signs, searching for intent and meaning), blinked and saw that, indeed, he was heartily inhaling two hotdogs couched in their buns, blanketed by a thick layer of chocolate syrup.
"This is delicious! I love cooking!" he exclaimed.
I kept quiet. After all, I did get the evening off from cooking.
LL, 3/27/2009. Prevail.