With a green chili chicken quiche in the oven and a cantaloupe and tiny watermelon all cut up, I'm taking five to blog for a minute. It's fascinating to me how fruit that is already cut up gets eaten at our house but fruit that is whole, and involves getting out a knife, cutting it up, dumping out the seeds and the rinds, just grows a beard in our refrigerator. I have learned over years of intense study and in depth research that some Y chromosomes are simply too ________, to do things for themselves. Feel free to fill in with any particular word(s) that suits your fancy.
Last night I wanted French toast so I 1) went into the kitchen 2) made it 3) looked up to find a Y chromosome scouting out my French toast to see if a) I'd made him any b) if it looked like there was any chance this side of Cincinnati that he might get some. I cook for Y all the time. Last night was just not his not his night.
While I cooked, I tried not to laugh. I really did. (Sorta.) The clincher was when I plated my oh, so cooked and diagonally sliced lovely french toast, took out the powdered sugar, spooned some into a strainer, and proceeded to dust my hot, fragrant, yummy smelling French toast, like they do on the cooking shows. As I sat down to watch my favorite KERA show, it was just me, my effort, and the Mrs. Butterworths.
Not to be outdone, Y chromo took out the frozen waffles, loaded them in the toaster oven, burned the ever living hell out of them, and then ate them. I've taught him how to make french toast. He knows how. I even left the pan for him to use, while I ate mine. But no. Burnt waffles was the dinner du jour. Go figure. :)))