Gluttony

On Saturday morning, The Boy woke up at six am. By nine, he was at the African markets, buying fresh plantains and cassava. By noon, he was at the local market, picking up quail, potatoes, and herbs. By evening, he was in the kitchen, wearing the apron my sister gave me for Christmas, humming and singing and generally causing a ruckus. I was strictly forbidden to intervene - a policy which pleased me enormously in theory, but was not exactly fully executed. He called on me repeatedly to find kitchen appliances/cookware, but I never once touched the food.

By eight-thirty, the four of us - Kathypath, Mr. Sarcastic, The Boy, and myself - were eating an awesome, totally complete and satisfying meal. Everyone cleaned their plate; most asked for seconds. We were blown away by The Boy's cooking - it was a four-star meal. We polished off four bottles of wine and a bottle of champagne (between the four of us, that's no small feat), and played a rousing game of Uno. One of us won the game. Another one of us got a little upset with the winner and accused her of cheating by hiding cards in her bra strap. After leaving around three am, another one of us couldn't find her cell phone when she went downstairs to catch a taxi. She wandered all the way back up the six flights to my house to see if she hadn't misplaced it somewhere inside, but while searching said, "Something's vibrating in my pocket." One of us went to "rest" in the bedroom and ended up falling asleep immediately. Yet another expanded on how happy he was with his culinary achievements for an additional 20 minutes after the "guests" had disappeared in some form or another.

As for me, I just felt good and sort of cozy and maternal like I do sometimes - I knitted while finishing up our conversation, then did the dishes and put the boys in bed, turned off the lights and drifted off to sleep.

But I know I got the best deal out of the thing. I woke up slightly headachy but also knowing that I drank less than my cohorts. Simple logic assumed they would be waking up in a less agreable state than I did. Note to selves: do not mix wine and champagne. At least not in such massive quantities.

Nonetheless, by eleven, I was outside, buying a simple breakfast for the boys and taking in the unseasonable warmth with a smile. At noon, I was reading my Chinese book and sipping coffee. Around one, Mr. Sarcastic hobbled out of the bedroom, rubbing his head. Three hours later, The Boy woke up, still victorious from his labors. The three of us gabbed our Sunday away, sprawled out on the pull-out couch we slept in last night when it was obvious Mr. Sarcastic was too tired (and comfortable) to go anywhere else for the night.

The last 24 hours have been goofy and fun and the way things should be.

And I am SO making The Boy cook for me again sometime. There's no turning back now.