My husband is a phenomenal cook. He can pile what looks like a load of crap into a pot and onto the grill, and out comes a culinary masterpiece. Last night, it was soup made from leftovers. A delectable, refrigerator-cleaning bowl of yumminess.
Problem is, eating soup next to Jasen is anything but a masterpiece. Juni couldn't wait for dinner before his bath time, so it was just Jasen and I perched at the bar. At first, I felt elated that he scooted next to me. Usually, Juni plops down in the middle chair.
It began with the seasoning. Pepper so heavy it lofted my way and made my eyes water and burn, and sneeze. I'm estimating about 3/4 of the pepper actually made it into the bowl. The rest landed on the bar. Waiting for me to sponge it off. Lovely.
Then began the actual eating. I swear, it was like the man hadn't eaten in 32 days. Noodles slurped into his mouth, spewing chicken broth droplets on the side of my cheek. And of course on the bar, again, waiting for the sponge.
I'm quirky. I know this. One of those quirks happens to be hearing people eat. As a child and teenager, I couldn't eat cereal near my mom. She crunched too loud. Jasen brings an all new meaning to loud eating. He slurps. He sips. He moans and groans in glutenous happiness. Makes me laugh and drives me crazy, all at the same time.
Later that night Juni passed out on the couch before his bedtime. I don't know what I was thinking, but I thought it would be nice to eat orange slices in bed with Jasen. Yeah...not so much. I thought eating soup was loud.
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