I was totally prepared to be annoyed with Parker this morning.
Which tends to be my natural state lately, but that’s another story.
Last night my three glasses of cab and I spent a whopping 5 minutes doing something novel as a treat for Parker this morning. Did he properly appreciate it? Of course not.
During the renovation, I rediscovered that I have a really good bread machine. It hadn’t been used in years, mostly because we now have a great artisanal baker in town.
But as I set up the new kitchen, I decided to locate the bread machine in an accessible spot. Because wouldn’t that be just wonderful.
Wouldn’t it be great to wake up on a chilly morning — which we’ve been having — to the smell of warm bread? And then to slather it with something yummy to go with my coffee?
And to go with the endless F’ing games of Uno a certain 10-year-old now insists we play from the moment he wakes up until the minute he leaves the house…?
That also is another story.
So last night my wine and I busted out the bread machine and prepped a whole-wheat pumpkin seed loaf.
Which then scared the crap out of me in the middle of the night.
Bam! Clonk! Err! Whirr! Bam! Clonk! Err! Whirr! Bam! Clonk! Err! Whirr!
For 30 minutes at 2:30 a.m.
And since I hadn’t used this device in years, I had no idea what I was hearing. Convinced some lunatic was breaking into the house — an incompetent and slow lunatic — I grabbed the only weapon I own…
The flashlight on my iPhone…
Jump ahead to 6:15 as we stumble down the stairs.
The bread came out great. So as a special treat, I slathered it with…
Yes, Healthy Eating Parent of the Year moment coming…
Leftover chocolate frosting from his birthday cake.
Because it was easier than trying to find a jar of Nutella. And I figured it was about as healthy.
While my son worked himself into a sugar coma, I took my coffee into the other room, blindly assuming he’d devour the bread my wine and I had labored so long for.
Until I came back into the kitchen and discovered the pile of discarded crusts.
A small mountain of crusts, actually. Mostly because much of the slices (the bread “flesh”) were still attached.
Because, it seems, they were “too close” to the actual crust.
For the record, the crusts were delicious.
And I was getting annoyed. Not just because he’d not eaten much of my carefully crafted bread. But also because he’d since been nagging me for a chocolate yogurt parfait.
Can’t finish the bread, but can demand more chocolate…
And then I flashed back about 30-something years… To a delightful, actually rather perfect 10-year-old boy — precocious, really — who liked to carry his lunch to school in a metal blue “Empire Strikes Back” lunch box.
And to the mom who without complaint every single day cut the crusts off the same damn mustard and cheese on whole wheat sandwich he insisted on.
Every. Single. Day.
She did it without complaint.
So Parker got a pass this morning. And his lunch? I cut the crusts off the bread before smearing it with pimento cheese…
Add some fruit and some leftover barbecue ribs…