"Rat-Patooty...which does NOT sound delicious!"

I recently learned something new.  According to a study, when young men living away from home--either serving missions for their churches, building their careers, or attending college--were asked what they miss the most about home, the majority of them replied, "I miss my mother's cooking." 

Rats! 

I.  AM.  IN.  TROUBLE.

And speaking of rats, (wait...what?) we've been watching A LOT of Ratatouille at our house lately.  It seems to be Ms. Lilly's flick of choice;  that DVD has found a permanent residence in our DVD player.  One particular part in the movie strikes a chord with me: 

Remy the rat and an airy, ghost-like Chef Gusteau (perhaps he appears as an apparition because he's deceased, or is a figment of Remy's imagination) are gazing down at Gusteau's restaurant through a skylight.  They watch the hectic bustle in the kitchen, commenting on the various culinary positions and their responsibilities.

Gusteau (and you should hear Lilly say his name using her best French accent) says to the rat beside him, "What do I always say?  Anyone can cook!"

Remy retorts, "Well, yea...anyone CAN, that doesn't mean that anyone should."

You see where I'm going with this?!

I can cook, but that doesn't mean I should.  I once burned taco soup so badly you couldn't tell the difference between the charred bits and the black beans...until you ate it, of course.  I've made chicken enchiladas that were so nasty and so deplorable my family could not even eat them.  I cried while James grabbed the car keys.  We went to McDonald's.  I had a Happy Meal and tried to be "happy" in spite of my enchilada calamity!

You might be thinking, "Keep it simple.  Use your microwave.  Nuke some stuff you scoop out of a can."  First of all, Chef Boyardee is gross.  Second of all, I tried microwaving green beans one evening, and they started on fire.  No joke.

But enough of dwelling on all the mishaps!  Being the kind of girl that sees the glass of Diet Coke as half full, I'll "accentuate the positive."

Hmm....

I know how to cook a roast.  (Granted, I just learned how to do that about three years ago...but still!)

Yep, documented the "first roast" via digital camera!

I have Cafe Rio programmed into my cell phone if I ever need to place a "to go" order...so I can do it in a snap!  I make a mean peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with the perfect ratio of peanut butter to jelly.  I can pour cereal into a bowl without spilling any on the table.  I can make spaghetti without a hitch, as long as the jar of pasta sauce isn't too difficult to open.

Oh!  And my Snickerdoodle cookies are to die for.  Seriously.  They're like ambrosia, and are so delightfully delicious even Zeus would clamor for one!  (A lil' side story:  I won a blue ribbon at the Cache County Fair for my Snickerdoodle cookies.  It was one of the grandest moments of my life: walking into the 4-H Building, scanning the display tables that were loaded with plates of cookies and brownies, searching for my submission and name card, spotting that ribbon lying beside my cookies--shiny, blue, and beautiful.  I was eight.)

Cam cannot live by roast and cookies alone!!

Or can he?

You know what?  He doesn't have to miss my cooking!  (And honestly, who would?)  When my "little man" is my "big man"--tall, successful and handsome, with hair and his own independent life--I hope he misses other things about home.  Like all the laughter.  The crazy, quirky jokes.  Dancing in the kitchen.  Board games on Sundays.  The traditions.  Holidays and birthdays.  The feeling of love, acceptance, and security.

And me.

I just hope Cam misses me.

Mama Leisha says, "When in doubt, go to Smash Burger!"