Love means never having to share your Chutney
I have developed newfound empathy for crack addicts. But not the kind of addictive substance Ms. Whitney Houston was referring to when she astutely observed “Crack is Whack”. I didn’t smoke it in a pipe.
I stuffed it in my mouth. Rapidly. My crack was a lovely hot mango chutney in which I dipped coconut shrimp. I could not stop. My Valentines dinner conversation consisted of this:
Me: “I can’t believe I have never tried this before!!!”
Jim: “We are truly blessed.”
Me: “Would you pass me some more shrimp? This is HEAVEN!”
Maggie: “I love you mommy. Happy Balentines!”
I enjoy cooking again. I enjoy it because Maggie enjoys helping me, and I enjoy overseeing her enjoyment. I set Maggie up on a chair at the counter, and she assists by chattering away, stirring things and making sculptures with a head of iceberg lettuce, half a lime, and two spears of half-eaten raw asparagus (it was impressive – her sense for color, symmetry, and spatial relations is uncanny). She also helps me prepare dinner by chomping stalks of raw asparagus and then exclaiming “ROOOOAAAAR! I’m a Dinosaur!” as green bits fly out of her mouth. Then she orders me to “act scared”.
It sure beats her old schtick: Standing between me and the stove, stomping her feet and pushing me back shrieking “NO MOMMY!” and then throwing herself on the floor kicking and screaming whilst I struggle to not spill something on her head.
Now if I can only figure out how to keep the dogs out of the Valentines cupcakes, next year will be an absolute breeze.
Now thatI have unlocked the magnificent bounty of mango chutney, the joy waiting to be gleaned from life is utterly limitless.