...like entering the deepest darkest jungles...I returned to the cabinet from whence comes all my culinary flavorings. I haven't visited it since last year...but wonder of wonders: I can still cook!
Tonight I offered my family dinner as I frequently do, but this time nothing came from a can that pops, nothing came "straight from freezer to microwave to table," nothing came with a please-specify-boy-or-girl toy included. No! Tonight I cooked...really cooked. Homemade vegetable soup. Homemade biscuits. OK, the applesauce came out of a jar, but I probably would have made it if I'd had the apples. My confidence looms. I even made snickerdoodles for dessert. Whacking back the brush: is there any cornstarch left in here? Wiping the rainforest sweat from my brow: could it be I still have any cream of tartar?
Proudly, I served, boasting to the boys that the dinner was made completely from scratch. My ten-year-old's response to my safari trophy--a steaming pot of soup--was to say, "What. You did this, and we got dinner?" as he scratched a finger against his ear. I told him this was not funny. He said, "No, but it is literal." I sighed, praying that I live to see the light at the end of the tunnel of his ten-ness.
God, I love summer break! If teaching ever becomes a year-round career in my state as it is in others, I may need to look for a new job, something that keeps my breaks intact while offering a comparable degree of stress: something like Alaskan king crab fishing...
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