This is my six-year old, Sebastian. He made dinner for me last Saturday night. Peter and Daniel were out of town this weekend, so Sebastian decided that he’d look after making a meal for the both of us. From scratch and by himself, more or less. I looked after getting the baking sheet in and out of the oven. I cut the chicken, too. But he supervised, “to make sure I didn’t cut myself.”
His menu: crunchy homemade chicken fingers, asparagus, and potatoes.
He set the table, and wouldn’t let me into the dining room until it was ready.
Hot chocolate for him. Milk for me, on his insistence. Because it’s good for me.
I think I should let him cook more often.