George Foreman to the Rescue

Did hell just freeze over? Something near-apocalyptic must have happened b/c I walked in the front door after work to find Brent in the kitchen. Standing at the counter. Making dinner. Kaboom, the end of the world.

It's not that Brent isn't a helpful noodle. He always moseys on over when I need something from the top cabinet. He's a real peach about putting the seat down (I don't understand the raging war, we've never had a problem w/ this). Sometimes I can even convince him to get up and get me a glass of water when we're both laying in bed. It's a tricky one, but it can be done if I play my cards right. Wink.

In terms of meals, I usually run the show. Not that I'm a gourmet or anything, but I'm making some serious headway in the kitchen. Gone are the days of cereal and hot pockets for dinner ( of course we still have them for dinner, just not back to back to back). More importantly, I like doing it. I get a real feeling of accomplishment sitting down to a meal I prepared and watching Brent enjoy it. So more often than not, that feeling of accomplishment is slashed in half as I watch Brent push his food around on his plate and say how he had a "big lunch." Boy, you best start eating that chicken, forget the starving kids in China ploy, I made that and you're going to enjoy it (and don't really forget the starving kids in China, that should guilt just about anyone under the age of 8).

But there he was today, my little chef. Opening cans of tuna and mixing in the mayo is a real skill, you know. He's probably ready to audition for the next season of Chopped. 

Last night an amazing thing happened. We were having grilled cheese for dinner and I was feeling a little wild:

Me: Hey! Wanna try the George Foreman grill for these?

Brent: on his computer

Me: Babe! I'm going to make our sammies on the George Foreman grill, okay?

Brent: still on his computer

Me: Buh-rent! Grilled cheese...George Foreman...anything?

Brent: leans over to nuzzle w/ Binx 

Me: Cool, I'm going to just pop these bad boys in, then I'm off to Mars for my six-month alien expedition. Don't worry, the sex slave I ordered for you should be here in a few days. Be careful though, she has a real bad case of lockjaw. 

Brent: Okay.

This may or may not have been our exact exchange. 

If you have a Foreman grill, you probably know all about making grilled cheese on them and are thinking, um, this girl is about 10 years late on this one. Exactly, so I've got to make up for lost time. Grilled cheese last night, tuna melts tonight. I just bought stock in WonderBread.

Jaykay jaykay...you think I'd eat WonderBread?

But seriously, I am loving these grilled sandwiches. I'm not even a big tuna gal, but pile on the cheese and tomato and I'll eat just about anything. Melt it together, and I don't care if it's a tire in there, that shit would taste good. Warm and cheesy and gooey will triumph.

Brent's rookie mistake? Not draining the tuna juice for ol' Binxy. The poor little guy was going nuts, weaving in and out of our legs, meowing his face off, jumping up on the counter for merely a glimpse of the stuff. God Brent, how could you have been so careless? First the starving kids in China, now our own cat?

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