“Mommy, I made you a special tweat,” pre-schooler Stacee announces, and I'm so wishing I‘d never made the mistake of pretending to eat that little girl’s mud pies.
Turning my face sideways and crumbling sun-baked soil from my mouth into the open collar of my shirt, I tasted everything from mud meringue to gourmet grit. With true grit, I downed my daughter's “chocolate” doughnuts by the “dirty dozen,” as her trips from the sand pile to the kitchen became more frequent.
Eventually, Stacee's cooking skills evolved to include real foods, but the sand-wiches she makes are well named. She can turn even the creamiest peanut butter into extra crunchy.
So this time I pause to ask her if she washed her hands before she made my “special tweat.”
“Didn’t need to,” she says with indignation thick as honey on her tongue. “I just wiped them on the bwead.”
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| Chef Stacee |
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| Peanut Butter Sand-wich |
