You all probably know how picky little kids are about what they eat, right?
They don’t like the looks of it, it ain’t gettin’ shoveled down their face without an argument if not an outright skirmish.
Hide the sharp utensils, ’cause one of you’s gonna wanna grab one.
Hell, I was like that until my early twenties. I just didn’t like most vegetables. I did like corn, and ….
I liked corn.
Oh, and carrots. Raw only.
Then I was sharing a place with Billy Kjontvedt (take THAT one, Spell Check!) up in Deer Creek Canyon and we got a pretty respectable veggie garden going. Broccoli, three types of squash, zucchini, carrots, about five different types of pepper and some herbs.
And some herb.
And Billy tells me “C’mon, dude. You grew them. You tilled the soil and spread the manure and tilled the soil some more and ran the underground soaker hoses …. You’ve gotta try them now.”
And I’ll be damned: they all looked and smelled and tasted a lot better not coming out of a can. And with something other than Kosher salt and black pepper.
So, I’m making a holiday meal for me and my wife Lizzie (and likely Frodo if we take out the onions):
a sirloin roast sitting in the crock pot on low for about six hours.
So I’m getting it all ready earlier this morning. Got the roast out, didn’t even need trimming. Got the potatoes and onions and carrots and zucchini and yellow chili peppers sliced up. I have the cinnamon and honey to put on the veggies: I’ll have them around the side of the pot, dig a hole for the roast in the middle of them, sprinkle the cinnamon and pour just the right touch of honey on the veggies and set the roast on its throne in the center of the pot.
First, I need to rub the spices into the roast.
Liz: “What kind of spices are you using?”
Me: “The usual ones. The minced garlic and all.”
Liz: “What ‘all’?”
Me: “The usual”, and I’ve got them spread out in front of me.
Me: “Don’t need it. And you’re just gonna add some to yours anyway.”
Liz: “You want the black pep- ?”
Me: “God no. Got red, got white, got paprika, got savory, some thyme. We’re set.”
And she looks at each of the bottles in front of me.
Liz: “I don’t like … this one. Or this one.”
Me: “Smell them.”
Liz: “I did. I don’t like the smell. Why don’t you make it like you did last time?”
Me: “Did you like it the way I make it last time?” (and those of you with kids under the age of twelve can stop reading here, ’cause you know where I’m heading with it and how this is going to end.)
Liz: “It was delicious just the way you made it last time. Just make it that way.”
Me: (And if you know the words, feel free to join in: all together!!!! One! Two!! THREE!!!) “I’m making it the exact same way today.”
Liz: ” .”
Me: “Just like you like it.”
Liz: “It was delicious last time. When will it be ready?”
Me: “After the Giants game.”
Liz: “Ohhhhh, we’re gonna have to smell it all afternoon. That’s gonna be torture.”
Me: “Yeah. Well, I’ll be back in the den listening to the game and working on the blog.”
Liz: “Okay. I’m gonna go take a nap. My back hurts from standing up in church this morning.”
Me: “I know. The band was hot this morning. They were on fire! Started in overdrive, down shifted and gunned it. Haven’t heard them like that before. Steve had them worked up.”
Liz: “Yeah. The lead guitarist was incredible. His solos. I didn’t know he could play like that.”
Me: “Think he listened to a little Eddie Van Halen in his youth?”
Liz: “Sounded like it. Okay. Give me a kiss. I’m gonna take a nap and cuddle with Papi.”
Just like a little kid.
“I don’t like it. I don’t like it. What? Oh. Okay.”
The same lady who last year, when she was fifty-nine, dyed Easter eggs for just the two of us.
That should help explain the thirty-eight years together.
She helps keep me young too.
Props to Rock ‘n’ Roll, but I really think it’s her.