Jackson: "Mom, what do you want for Christmas?"
Me: "A Bosch." (top of the line mixer for aspiring domestic goddesses such as myself. My friend Carol Fawson is schooling me in the art of bread making).
Jackson: (perplexed, as he should be) "Way to dig deep, mom."
This is the same Big Guy who, as of late, has been sneaking up ever so early on Sunday mornings, (his father and I ignoring the clanks and clatter in the kitchen at 6:30am on the only day we get to sleep in). He's produced a couple of extremely edible breakfasts.
I'm talking waffles, scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon (microwavable, but still).
Love you, my nine year old chef.