My diabolical plan is succeeding.
Cranky is becoming a great cook, and all I had to do was be brave and let him fool around in the kitchen.
It was funny, actually, the number of times he popped out and asked me, ensconced in my easy chair with a New Yorker magazine, whether, what, and how he should be doing this or that.
"Oh," I purred. "However it seems right. That would probably do."
I felt brave, letting him be brave.
Yesterday's lunch was a deep, rich French onion soup. There are plenty of recipes for onion soup, so he just familiarized himself with one, and let 'er rip.
We had all the ingredients on hand (mostly local) and they really wanted to be cooked and et. The best part was the homegrown spring onions, unbelievably moist and tender and sweet; some cooking recalculation was required to cope with their baby-soft texture, and Cranky did fine.
Oh, but he was a hopping fool. Skittering out of the kitchen, asking my advice, coping with my utter detachment.
His best move was deciding not to cover the soup bowls with bread and mounds of cheese, which just seals the broth in a rubbery, broiled sarcophagus, making the soup too hot to eat. Instead, he toasted some bread, melted a little cheese over it, and laid the cheesy (but not-too-cheesy) toast into the bowls.
And later, he brought me some chocolate for dessert.
World domination, I tell you.