Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Cutthroat Kitchen

DQ Reader My Wife is a very good cook. That's why I can write about this.

Gloria made enchiladas tonight, but she tried a new recipe. It did not go well.

I looked at the pan, then got my plate. "Do we have anything else that goes with this?" I asked, innocently. "Like rice or something?"

We usually have rice or something.

Later, after dinner, the awkward questions began.

"So, what did you guys think of the enchiladas?" Gloria asked.

I was going to jump out of a window, but I couldn't. That's why you shouldn't put the living room on the first floor.

"I know you didn't like them," Gloria said.

"They were, um--very wet," I said.

"WET," Eli 14.5 said.

"Something with the texture was a little off," I said, "but they were definitely wet. They were sort of--wet-chiladas."

Eli burst out laughing. I know this was heading downhill, because once we both start laughing, it's hard to stop.

"That's it, Mom," Eli said. "Wetchiladas!"

"I have to go to Walgreen's in a little while for Benadryl," I said, mouthing the word "Chic-Fil-A" to Eli, which sent him into borderline hysterics. Now we're both laughing ourselves silly.

"All right, the next person who says 'the word' has to clean the kitchen," Gloria said.

"What word?" I ask.

"Oh, no," she said. "I'm not falling for that."

"What if, hypothetically," I said, "I say the word as part of a call and response. So what if I say wet--"

"--chilada," Eli says, and bursts out laughing.





"You are both completely hopeless," Gloria said.

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