This past Sunday Carlos and I went to a concert in the park
in Camden and before we left I prepared
everything to cook dinner once we got
home.
After the concert, which was good and it was a gloriously
sunny cool day, we returned home and I set about cooking dinner. I served it
and as we ate Carlos said:
“This is good.”
And I responded as I usually do:
“I know.”
That line slays; but I digress. After dinner, clearing the
plates, Carlos asked what I called the dinner and I told him I didn’t know. It
was a recipe I made up in my head and:
“We’ve had this before.”
“I know but my mother likes to know what we cook and so I
wanted to tell her about this and I
don’t know what to call it.”
“Oh, um, call it Chorizo-Potato Hash, I guess.”
“What kind of meat is in it?”
“Chorizo.”
“I know but is there ground turkey in it.”
“No just Chorizo.”
“So no meat?”
“Chorizo is meat. What are you asking?”
“The kind of meat in—
“It’s chorizo. You know chorizo, you got me hooked on
it. You grew up on it. Your mother cooked with it. It’s meat.”
“But is there ground turkey, too?”
At that point I took the frying pan from the stove and
clocked him in the head. He gets it now. |