When your 2 year old comes into your bedroom at 6 am, kind of sad, kind of desperate, kind of crippled; and begs you for "a po-tae-toe." Do yourself a favor and don't panic. Don't run into the kitchen and start chopping red po-ta-toes, and heat up the cast iron pan. Dont add garlic salt and fresh cracked pepper. Don't serve it on a platter with a flower, and oj and a fork and napkin. Don't ask her to sit at the end of the bed while watching "Nora, the ESS-plora." no. Do yourself a favor and just get her a glass of milk.
Because that's what she really wants.
A big ol glass of chocolate milk.
So dear reader, as I eat my fried red potato, and contemplate why I jump for these rats at 6 am in the morning, I say to you:
It was my pleasure to cook for you my dear. And I will probably do it again tomorrow.
Why? Because that's my job. To be there for my babies. 6 am, fryin taters. Midnight, drug store runs. Sunday at 2pm or Monday at 1 am. It's my role. My job. My pleasure.
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