And she wonders why I blog about her.
Happy Mother’s Day, mama. Thank you for this conversation.
Scene: Kitchen. Dad is “making breakfast”, which translates to destroying the kitchen like a whirling dervish, using every single pan, plate, and utensil, and almost setting the kitchen ablaze. Mom and I look on in horror. Over the din of crashing flatware, this conversation arises.
Mom: We’re supposed to use…chee-a-bata? Cee-a-a bata bread?
Mom: C-eye-a-bata? Cia-Obama?
Me: (head in hands) Ciabatta.
Me: That’s an antidepressant. Ciabatta. It’s Italian.
Me: That’s a Wookie. CIABATTA. CIABATTA. CIABATTA.
Mom: (triumphant) It’s like Star Wars bread!
Me: Mom, why don’t you sit down before you hurt yourself.