Last night, I prepared roast beef with potatoes and carrots for dinner for probably only about the third or fourth time in my life. Then I remembered why I rarely made the dish.
Younger is not a dedicated fan of roast beef.
“I don’t hate it, Mom,” he assured me with a shrug. “I just don’t really like it.”
But then, later, as I worked on my computer, engrossed in writing a Christmas play, Younger wandered into the living room. “Mom, the reason I don’t really care for roast beef is because I feel like you chew it and chew it then finally just have to give up and swallow,” he told me. “But –”
And with the upturn in his voice, I was totally preparing myself for him to tell me my roast beef was chewable, a compliment of sorts, one I would have accepted, as I have no illusions of myself as a cook.
I straightened my shoulders a little.
I started to smile.
“But,” he continued, “if you put a little barbecue sauce on it, it just slides right down.”
Some sons brag on their mommas’ cooking.
Mine, they apparently suggest barbecue sauce to help it all go down.
Just absolutely, perfectly, fine-and-dandy lovely.