My son offered to make me dinner last night. Burritos! Holy wow. Hell hath frozeth over, in the form of tamales. Just kidding. He’s a great kid. And if the only thing he can make is burritos then I’m all for it. Otherwise, If I keep waiting around for a caprese panini, I may starve. Anyway, I fell asleep earlier during the day and had asked him prior to my snore fest that he clean up the kitchen. Visions of baby beans and shredded cheese particles dancing in my head. Now, if you have kids, you already know the never-ending battle of “the cleaning of the house.” Filthy dishes. Crap on the floor. Dirty cheese grater. BLAH.
So I awaken from my noontime slumber and I roam my happy ass into the kitchen -singing happy burrito songs -and the bomb that had gone off had yet to be… Still… tidied up. Ugh. Nobody wants to enter that dragon. Fire breathing hot sauce chaos. I went from happy to shitty in under two seconds flat. I’m a mom. It’s a required talent. Get your butt up and handle that! Ugh. No, satirist mumbles allowed, man-child. I pretty much ripped him a new one. Teenage angst, grunt and groans. Fun. Fun. I’m your mom, not your friend. No. Wire. Hangers! I’ll live through your momentary disdain.
As I fight off the Mommy Dearest reference trying to escape me like the exorcist. I make the biggest deal about the cheese grater. What’s a burrito without any cheese? No. Really. The cheesy goodness is the best part. The grater was dirty and… I saw visions of my dinner waning. Waiiiit… Delicious tortillas. Don’t run. Come back! Therefore, my incessant yacking. Or crying. Clean the kitchen! We can’t… go on.. Without… The grater. Give the grater a good scrub! Do you hear that? I do. It’s the faint screams of the extra sharp cheddar, howling my name…
After all was said and done, we decide to get to it together and bond -over mexican rice- and he pulls a bag from out of the refrigerator. Well I’ll be damned. We bought pre-shredded cheese.