Yesterday, MrMan attended his first cooking class. One of the things I dig about his new school is that the aftercare program (or lagniappe, as they call it), includes a class for the first hour. A different one, Monday through Thursday. He’s taking French, math games (his first choice), percussion, and cooking. It seems like yesterday’s class, where they made what sounded like a strawberry lemonade (“I can’t remember what it’s called, but I can tell you the ingredients: sugar – but it’s a healthy recipe, strawberries, a blender, lemons…”), inspired him.
A little before I was going to leave for last night’s book group, he came into my room and announced he was going to make something small for me to take to book group. I didn’t know what that meant, but as the conversation progressed, it became clear that he meant a food item. I thanked him, but told him that I was going to eat at book group. But the boy was insistent that I eat a tiny something before I went. So he went into the kitchen, created a cheese and avocado sandwich, and marched back into my room with a half on each palm.
My anal retentive self directed us to the table. Where we giggled about the fact that Sam helped him cut the cheese. (Oh, I delight that he’s old enough to get that joke now.)
And then, I wasn’t that hungry, but I ate that cheese, avocado, and love sandwich.