Tonight was supposed to be big brother's night to make dinner. We had discussed a plan in which he would be in charge of one dinner per week. He would pick the recipe, he would write down the necessary ingredients, (I would do the shopping), and he would be in charge of cooking it, with help of course.
On Friday, as I took them to school, we discussed ideas. "How about chicken turnovers?" I asked, and I went on to describe one of my favorite childhood dishes (where I come from this sort of thing is called an empanada -- a much more appealing word). My mother used to make them -- delectable.
Of course, given my rave review, there was great enthusiasm. A resounding yes in the car.
And of course, since I was working in town near the coop, I looked up the recipe. And did the shopping.
And of course, on Saturday, I started "prepping" - simply braising the chicken and vegetables. But I told him "you're in charge tomorrow. You're cooking dinner. And if you don't cook, we'll have toast for dinner."
"Yes!" he said enthusiastically. He was very excited.
But of course, come today, I decided we were running out of time. I decided that I didn't want to interrupt their happy outside play. I decided I had better just throw together the dough.
And of course, by the time they walked in the door, I was putting the little fork marks on the final empanada. All by myself in the kitchen. Covered in flour.
And I was totally thrilled.






Yes I really should have slowed down and invited him to do every bit of the work. I didn't follow through (even for a moment) with what we had set out to do.
And he was a little disappointed. But only for a second. Because he was having a blast and I was having a blast, and really, it was all OK. And the empanadas were GOOD.
Next time, it's all him. I promise. (And I'll have photos to prove it.)
(Note on photos: I don't cook to take pictures -- and I don't, even for a second, fancy myself a food blogger. But when I do cook, things capture my attention -- the lovely shape of the dough, or the colors of the vegetables, or the beautiful patterns made from the cooking mess. Cooking is such a REAL activity, it's true work done with the hands and the senses (nothing virutal here). I'm compelled to try to capture it in all of its real-ness.)