He Cooked Me a Banana

I actually do think about blogging every day, but I just can't quite get here that often.

Since seeing Ratatouille, the movie, two weeks ago, the Sprout has decided that he wants to become a chef. This is not a completely new concept in our house, of course. Jimbo (Sprout's main male role model) is an excellent cook, and I (clever squirrel that I am) regularly tell my son, "If you learn to cook really well, you can have any girl that you want when you grow up." It's a bit hyperbolic, but it amuses me. And it's one of the main reasons why I married Jim, so perhaps it's somewhat true.

Sprout's first post-Ratatouille meal was to help me make simple quesadillas. He crumbled the cheese, he spread the cubed leftover chicken, he squirted on the salsa, he patted down the top taco shell. It was very satisfying for both of us. And it was tasty. Dessert was fresh raspberries on ice cream.

The next night, he wanted to make me a fancy dessert again. I said I'd prefer fruit, and could he cut me up a banana? I got distracted momentarily by something else, and when I got back to the kitchen, he had done it all by himself. He had gotten a butter knife and sliced the banana into a bowl, and now was presenting to me my dessert with a flourish.

Me: Oh, Sprout! That's just lovely! Would you like to share my banana dessert?

Him: Um, no, I'm okay. [wait for it] I'm just pwoud dat I cooked dat dessert for you.

I love him to bits.