Before leaving to visit Chuck this evening, Cienna indicated that I should "get started on dinner…"
Carlos smirked and handed CIenna a poptart, which she regarded the way one might a frosted dog turd. I looked pointedly at the bag of chips on the counter and said,
"I'll wait until you guys get back…I'm not hungry yet…the green chilis are still thawing…"
"I mean you should MAKE us something. YOU SHOULD COOK. Use the big boxy thing that you heat tortilas on…"
I rolled my eyes because saying "Fuck You" to one's children is rude. I love my children. I love their self-sufficiency.
"WHY DO YOU OWN COOKBOOKS?" she persisted.
More smirking from Carlos. He understands that I'm not the cooking sort of mother. I own cookbooks because they are books. I love books. Cook books are books for the kitchen. I don't actually read them, though, because they BORE THE LIVING FROSTED SHIT OUT OF ME. I can make 3 things: Salsa, red chili, and green chili stew. I'm the only one that will eat the green chili stew because it tends to be a little spicy, red chili is a pain in the ass, but it was challenging to master and Carlos loves it. Salsa is our family staple. I live on it. If you put it on Pizza, its a well rounded diet.
CIenna cooks and eats elaborate artsy meals. Obviously something she picked up in college when other girls were experimenting with their sexuality. She forgets that to me Frosted Mini Wheats will feed a family of my size for 3 days, with a chips and salsa appetizer. The Flying Pie PIzza shop doesn't even need me to speak when I dial. All I need to do is breath heavy into the phone. I love that. I'm too tired from a full weekend of not living up to expectations to dial though. And, as I said, I'm not hungry.
So I'm laying here surfing the 'nets waiting for the children to return and counting on Chuck to have fed them. He's a great cook. And we are out of milk.