Demon Baby has only one Grandma. Technically, he does have two, but his paternal grandmother so loathes me she cut all four children out of her life nearly 11 years ago. As this blog attests . . . I don't know how you could NOT want a Demon Baby to love, but so it is. He doesn't really know who she is or that she exists, and it is very much her loss since he is so special. Hence, in Demon Baby's world there is ONE Grandma.
So two days ago, he was my helper in the kitchen and the following conversation ensued.
"What are we making?"
"Vietnamese rice paper rolls with peanut sauce."
"WHAT are you DOING with my peanut butter [aside, his favorite food]?!?!?!?!" [second aside, there was a note of hysteria to his voice.]
"Turning it into a sauce."
"That's gross."
"You'll see. Now . . . we're going to take this leftover chicken and cut it into pieces to stuff inside the rolls."
"You know who makes chicken sandwiches?"
"No, but I'm sure you will tell me."
"Pop." [my father]
"Really?"
"Yeah, but I gotta tell you, Pop is not a good cooker. You know what he does? He puts a ton of salt on his chicken sandwiches. And he makes the counter a mess." [true.]
"Hmm. Well, I am sure it's because he can't see the counter well." [my father is blind, and when he comes to stay for a few weeks, I think it's hard because my kitchen countertops are very dark.]
"You know who is a REALLY good cooker?"
"Who?" [I was hoping for ME.]
"His mother!" [i.e., his WIFE, my mother, Demon Baby's lone Grandma.]
"His MOTHER?"
"Yeah. The lady with the white hair. Now, let me tell you, SHE can cook a chicken."
"I know. She used to cook for me when I was your age."
"You were never my age."
"I was."
"And Pop's mother cooked for you?"
I nodded.
"Did she make you noodles with butter?"
"Yes."
"And those little pizzas?"
"Yes."
"Did she give you ice cream?"
"Yeah."
"Pop's mother is the best."
"She is."
"Is she coming to live with us for Christmas again?"
"Yes. For a few weeks. Her and Pop."
"Will she cook?"
"Sure."
"All right. Just tell her to keep Pop out of the kitchen. He's too messy with the salt."
And of course, then the IRONY struck me. Here was a DEMON BABY telling me a 75-year-old grandfather of eleven was too MESSY. Approximately 5 minutes after this conversation took place, Demon Baby accidentally dumped a box of Life cereal on the floor in the family room. But at least he doesn't get salt on the kitchen counters.
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Friday, June 13, 2008
Cooking Demon Style
Demon Baby has a new passion. He likes to "help" cook.
The thing is, it really, really makes him happy. You have never SEEN a child so filled with utter JOY as when he gets to help cook or bake.
His father is a foodie and a former chef, so I suppose it makes sense. But to give you an idea . . . he woke at 6:30 today and ran shrieking through the house singing "The Pancake Song" because he was going to get to make pancakes. The Pancake Song pretty much consists of screaming out, "I'M MAKING PANCAKES" in a sing-song way. Five hundred times in a row.
After mixing the batter, he got to stand and watch for the "bubbles" that signaled it was time to flip them. But he doesn't, even though you are standing there right next to him, say, "It's time to flip." No . . . instead, he screams it, he shouts it, he cannot contain his exuberance at the miracle of the pancake griddle.
We made grape Jello two days ago. You would have thought we cooked a 12-course French meal.
But . . . you know no story of Demon Baby is complete with . . . well, DEMON BABY. So yes, in general, cooking with him is a disaster. He thinks it's funny to put the spatula IN the batter. As in bury it in the bowl so it's a gloopy mess.
He "aims" for the bowl when pouring in ingredients.
He makes it about half the time.
At least when he cooks, the dogs feast.
Oh, and one more thing. Demon Baby doesn't think he needs me to cook. So his new "thing" is taking strange ingredients and combining them to make soup. Thus, yesterday, I gave him a bowl of Life cereal (no milk) for a snack. I came in to write in my office. He found a half-full can of Diet Coke left on a table by his sister and added that to the Life cereal. Then he went into the kitchen and took leftover rice and added that to it. Then he decorated generously with M&Ms. Then he stirred. A lot.
The results?
Positively frightening.
The thing is, it really, really makes him happy. You have never SEEN a child so filled with utter JOY as when he gets to help cook or bake.
His father is a foodie and a former chef, so I suppose it makes sense. But to give you an idea . . . he woke at 6:30 today and ran shrieking through the house singing "The Pancake Song" because he was going to get to make pancakes. The Pancake Song pretty much consists of screaming out, "I'M MAKING PANCAKES" in a sing-song way. Five hundred times in a row.
After mixing the batter, he got to stand and watch for the "bubbles" that signaled it was time to flip them. But he doesn't, even though you are standing there right next to him, say, "It's time to flip." No . . . instead, he screams it, he shouts it, he cannot contain his exuberance at the miracle of the pancake griddle.
We made grape Jello two days ago. You would have thought we cooked a 12-course French meal.
But . . . you know no story of Demon Baby is complete with . . . well, DEMON BABY. So yes, in general, cooking with him is a disaster. He thinks it's funny to put the spatula IN the batter. As in bury it in the bowl so it's a gloopy mess.
He "aims" for the bowl when pouring in ingredients.
He makes it about half the time.
At least when he cooks, the dogs feast.
Oh, and one more thing. Demon Baby doesn't think he needs me to cook. So his new "thing" is taking strange ingredients and combining them to make soup. Thus, yesterday, I gave him a bowl of Life cereal (no milk) for a snack. I came in to write in my office. He found a half-full can of Diet Coke left on a table by his sister and added that to the Life cereal. Then he went into the kitchen and took leftover rice and added that to it. Then he decorated generously with M&Ms. Then he stirred. A lot.
The results?
Positively frightening.
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