Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

please don't piss off the chef

The last few months have brought many changes in my life. I’ve had to sacrifice modern conveniences (and Barnes and Noble) for the solitude of the country. I must admit, I miss having a metroplex movie theatre close by. I miss human interaction (my main reason for hanging out at the bookstore cafes). And I pine for my hairdresser every time I look in the mirror. But I try to remind myself of all the wonderful things I got in the bargain. I have chickens, and ducks, and a mountain view all for me. And for a few weeks, I had the complete quiet of an existence without my children living at home.

Yeah, about that…

The girls moved back with their significant others, and I have to say…I kinda like this whole family thing. I have boys to order around…errr ummm…sweet talk into doing errands for me. Mike loves having boys to cut down trees and mow the grass. The unpacking is finally complete, now that I have burly guys to lift heavy things and put them away for me. And other than the occasional (ok, frequent) couples arguments, it’s been smooth sailing around here.

Did I happen to mention my daughter’s boyfriend is a chef?

Oh yeah…a chef. And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten my little bet with the hubby. The one where I won a life free of ever cooking again? Yeah, as soon as we moved here, that little agreement flew right out the window like a chicken being chased by my dog. But when the daughter moved in with the chef, well, suddenly I didn’t have to cook anymore…again. And this time I’m not forced to eat my husband’s crazy concoctions (he hates when we call them that, but I doubt science experiments would go over any better). This time, I’m getting the gourmet treatment almost any time I want it.

Now I’m praying my daughter doesn’t muck it up. I mean, she can’t break up with my chef! What would I do? What the hell would I eat? I’d be kissing my chicken parmesan goodbye. And my homemade, hand tossed fancy goat cheese pizzas. And the fettuccini alfredo. (Insert groans and salivating here). The list just goes on and on.

I’ve decided if they break up, she’s got to find someplace else to live. I mean, yeah, I love her…she’s my baby. But the guy is a fantastic cook! AND he does the dishes. Do you hear me? He does the fucking dishes too! Maybe I should just pressure them into getting married. I get to keep him in the pre-nup. That’s fair, right?

Yeah, I hope she doesn’t read this. At least not until she’s over the PMS.

Until the next time…I’ll be stuffing my face with garlic mashed potatoes and fresh sweet corn succotash.

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