You open up the garage door to take out the pop cans and this is what you see. No, they are not shrunken skulls or slimy geodes but cooked squash and yams, cooling. Another day with a vegan in the house.
The boy is back in the kitchen and ain't I glad. Cowboy Dave does not cook unless you count peanut butter toast and I do not. When we were dating or whatever we were doing, he did make me Magic Meatloaf which was prepared in the microwave. And as that oven is not a browning device the dish still maintained its pink color. Are there any potatoes left, dear?
Jason in the kitchen resembles a choreographed act. He slices, dices and chops mounds of vegetables. He grates fresh ginger, squeezes real limes and presses garlic cloves with the side of a knife. He opens and closes cupboard doors, sniffing at spices and herbs, pausing and throwing in pinches. He inspires me. I realize the beauty of the process. It is all about the adventure, the experimental nature of the job. At first the curry tastes too hot, he thinks, well, that may be for Midwestern palates. He adds coconut milk and olive oil and now it's good. There is no recipe. He moves entirely on instinct.
The sauce is yams and butternut and acorn squash and Jamaican curry and other things I did not witness. We have an amazing cheese bread from farmer's market and a salad with cucumber and strawberries. Brown rice, yes, and the Merlot flows freely.
And this is what happens. I show Ethan how uncle Jason coats his pans, a shaking motion in midair that causes the butter to be evenly spread on the skillet surface. Ethan is making his phenomenal scrambled eggs. You gotta keep stirring them Grandma, that 's the best way, he says. And I taught him this from my own mother's instruction. She was famous in the nursing home where she cooked for her frequently stirred scrambled eggs. A couple of nurses at the hospital on her last visit remembered those damn eggs.