Tonight I made popcorn. But the pan I normally use was dirty and since I can barely stand up right now (thank you mystery illness) I used a different pot. It didn’t turn out well.
Back on the sofa, Will says “what’s that smell?” I say “popcorn, but I burned it.”
He disappears to go investigate. Comes back chewing. ”Why didn’t you bring it out to us?”
“Because I burnt it, baby. I’m sorry.”
Crestfallen, Will whines “but I like burnt stuff.”
Which made me flash back to a few days ago, when I was making quesedillas for lunch. I burnt the first one (having been dragged to the sofa by Ellie and enticed with ‘huggies’). The burning smell had me back in the kitchen, making attempt number two. At which point I started looking through the mail.
Will came into the kitchen. ”Is my lunch ready, Mom?”
“Sorry, buddy—I burnt the first one but I’m working on the second one.” I go over to the pan, flip it. “Oh man. I burnt this one too. I’m so sorry Will, I’ll make another one.”
“No! I like the black part! I like it crunchy!”
His future wife will likely thank me for setting Will’s culinary standards so incredibly low.
