It’s no secret around here that the boy enjoys any good TV show on tracking Big Foot through the woods or hearing eyewitness reports from men with no front teeth about how the UFO landed just behind their barn last week, and YELLOW EYES, Y’ALL! THEY HAD YELLOW EYES!
He’s also a self-taught banjo picker, and he’ll wipe fish guts on his American Eagle jeans after he fillets a fish at the lake.
But then the boy has an entirely different side.
He golfs. He golfs very well, and he likes to tuck his collared shirt in and wear a belt on the golf course. He also told me the other day that he’s tired of crockpot dinners, because we should really cook more like fancy chefs in our house.
Yes. Because THAT’S going to happen. Let me just stand back, Boy, and let you take over at the stove, with your freshly chopped basil and your fresh buffalo mozzarella that came in on the last plane from Italy.
For the past few weeks, that boy of ours has been begging to try caviar. I told him that we aren’t really “caviar people.” We’re more of a “canned queso on corn chips” sort of family, when it came to snacking. And that’s alright, because we have Jesus in our hearts.
We had to stop at the grocery store after school today, because I needed something for dinner. I wasn’t on top of my Varsity Housewife Game by throwing some non-gourmet slop in the crockpot first thing this morning, so I needed a quick dinner idea. The boy suggested lobster tails, which were on sale at the meat counter. I suggested tuna sandwiches. He suggested pan-seared ribeyes. I countered with the option of Life cereal. Or, if he wanted to get fancy, I could get the GOOD box of Hamburger Helper.
We settled on a fast chicken marinade to go on some chicken breasts to grill, paired with corn on the cob and rosemary potatoes.
That’s about as fancy as we get in this kitchen.
The boy informed me that I’d be the first one cut from any cooking show on television. I reminded the boy that I would never actually BE on a televised cooking show, because of the word COOKING, and how much I hate that word.
As we were pushing our cart toward the checkout aisle, the boy mentioned again that one of these days, he’d sure love to try some caviar. I told him that he didn’t have a tuxedo to wear while he was eating it, but we went to the canned fish aisle, because his mama loves him.
And… I forked over ten American dollars for a jar of generic caviar that apparently didn’t originate with the best fish caught off yachts in the Caspian Sea. This $10 jar was a batch of fish eggs from some swampy bottom-dweller, I guess, because the boy assured me that Beluga Caviar runs between $3,000 and $4,500 a pound.
In other words, I can pay for a semester of college for the boy at Harvard or have a single snack of black crud on a cracker.
But, because this was his trial run with the caviar, the boy was okay with the fact that it was THE. CHEAP. STUFF. This is Small Town, USA, y’all. Not a lot of us buy the caviar here.
But at least he bought the fanciest crackers he could find at the grocery store, because CAVIAR, Y’ALL. This wasn’t your average after school snack of a Pop Tart.
… we came home, and he tried the stuff. He pushed hard to talk me into having some caviar on a cracker, too, but listen. I can’t even go there. I love fish, but I love myself some COOKED fish. Sushi and fish eggs? I can’t even.
He. Loved. It.
And he informed me that instead of treating him to ice cream cones and frappuccinos from the coffee house, I can now treat him to a little $10 jar of smelly crap.
(Oh! Did I type that word out loud?! I’m sorry; this is a PG blog, and we seldom cuss around here.)
Carry on, and y’all have a happy Wednesday evening.