On Wednesday, Jacque made me lasagne.
Well, she didn't necessarily make it just for me. She had been hungry for it and had the stuff to make it. But since she knew how much I like lasagne, she decided to go ahead and make it on the night I came over.
Evan decided he should make something for me, too. Some of the noodles had broken in the box, so he picked those up and threw them in a pot. Thus began the most mouth-watering dish ever.
He carried the pot to the bathroom to add water and then grabbed the lemon juice from the fridge. Next came various pasta. He threw in some elbow macaroni and a bit of rotini. A large spoonful of parsley later and he knew he needed more.
"Spices!" He cried. "I need spices!"
A dash of grilled chicken seasoning, a pile of steak seasoning; all was added with care. And then of course, there was the salt and pepper to taste. Which apparently means sixteen tablespoons of each.
"All done!" He declared. "Here you go, Aunt Bee! I made you soup!"
"Awesome. Looks . . . delicious. I'm going to finish my water before I eat it!"
I was hoping he'd wander away so I could dump it out and tell him how great it was. But he stayed in the kitchen. When he was at the sink, not paying attention, I picked up my spoon and started singing praises. "Mmmm! Oh wow that soup is delicious!"
Instead of just taking my word for it, Evan came back to the table to sit with me. He watched me very intently. "Eat it."
Jacque was silently rolling on the floor with laughter as I lifted the spoon to my mouth and tried to fake it. "Hey! You're not eating it!"
"So I lifted the spoon to my mouth again. And actually let the soup enter my mouth.
And this is pretty much how I felt: