This is the kind of trick question I relish.
"Who! Who?" I texted the youngest, 99 percent certain that the maker of the chicken couldn't possibly be the asker of the question, 'cuz, come on, when's the last time he made chicken? I don't know about you, but I'm drawing a blank.
"Me me me me," he texted back.
Well, spank my tush and call me Shlomo, I was wrong and it felt so right.
Next came the recipe: "Salt and pepper and olive oil."
"Nice! Love that you're cooking."
"It was very tasty."
When I told hubby that his youngest son had performed a culinary miracle, most likely because his older brother/roomie refused to get off the couch, he wanted to know one thing:
"Did he clean up?"
Which made me think of this moment from "Now, Voyager":
"Oh, Jerry, don't let's ask for the moon, we have the stars."
But I kept that to myself. Instead, I said this:
"I'm not asking him that."
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