My wonderfully imaginative son has recently decided that he is a cooker guy. So I have been spending quite a lot of time eating pretend food. His latest creation was a beautiful masterpiece of crayon cake. Mmmm. I can still taste the sweetness on my tongue.
Although his delictable dishes are not entirely filling, they got me to thinking, could my family actually subsist on pretend food? My husband has this fantasy that while he goes out and earns the dough I will stay at home and cook with it. And I really do try. But some days it just doesn't happen and he arrives home to a messy house, a naked three year old who is screaming that he will not wear anything but the red pajamas that are in the wash, and no dinner on the proverbial table. Or on the real table for that matter. I, of course, could exist on goldfish and Coca Cola Zero indefinitely, and the little man is the one who keeps the Wonder Bread guys and peanut farmers in business. But my husband. My husband wants a home cooked meal. The kind that he was raised on. The kind that sends him drifting off to a happier and simpler time when he ran wild in the fields and hunted for bugs and other boyish things. And it's not like I can't cook those kinds of meals. I often surprise myself at how well I can cook when I am given the time to do so. But that brings me back to the kid. The cooker guy. Lately, I spend so much of every day eating his wonderful pretend creations that I often find myself out of time to make any real ones. Thank God for Cena. This wonderful little establishment has been placed on this Earth to save my marriage. From now on my husband will have his home cooked meal and I will have the privilege of enjoying my little guy's company over a slice of Lego pie and tea. The world will all be right again. That is until laundry time. Does anyone know where I can round up some pretend clean clothes?
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