“I want to make crepes,” Milo declared Saturday morning.

I really had no good reason to say no; it was Saturday morning, we’re still in lock down, and the fact that I don’t like cleaning up cooked breakfasts or the smell of hot grease lingering on the air seemed pretty thin.  “Ok, you can make crepes,” I consented, “as long as you also do the clean-up.”

He had already looked up the recipe on the tablet, and started to call out the ingredients.  “Mom, can you help me?”

“I can help you cook them; you can make the batter yourself.”

“But I want to do the cooking.”

Somehow I found myself standing at the counter taking ingredient orders from my nine year old son.  Actually, I know how that happened–I’m a conflict avoider.

“1 cup of flour, you got that, Mom?”

“Right, now what?”

“Make a depression in the flour, then mix in two eggs.”

“Really?  I’ve never seen a pancake recipe like this; I’m not sure this is going to work,” I commented, as the mass clumped solidly together, stiffer than playdough.

“That’s what it says.  Now, gradually add 11 slash 2 cups of milk.”

“11 cups?  Do you mean 1 and a half cups?”  I glanced at the screen to confirm and poured in a dollop of milk.  The play dough ball got slimy and lumpy, but not smooth.  I pulled out the whisk and applied some serious elbow grease to the globby mass.  “I’m not so sure this recipe will come out well, Milo,” I worried again.

“It will.  It says ‘Delish’.”

He dismissed my concerns with a blithe calmness, fully confident that his plan would work.  After all, the recipe said “Delish,” and he was directing the operations personally.  What could go wrong?

Confidence.  Whether founded or unfounded, it’ll serve him well in this world in which we live.   For the record, the crepe batter did eventually smooth out.