“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?