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: “Oh. My. GOD. This is good.”

Jim: “We have really grown together as a couple. I love you.”

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!”

Me: “Are you going to eat that?”

Other observations:

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 that I have unlocked the magnificent bounty of mango chutney, the joy waiting to be gleaned from life is utterly limitless.