At some point in the last couple of years, Nigel, like another skillful boy his age, learned to make toast. He has this routine of pre-slicing the butter so that it has softened by the time the toast pops up, placing the thin pats on the toast, waiting 30 seconds and then spreading them.  Then he actually wraps up the bread and butter and puts them away. It’s one of the things he does perfectly. And until last week, it was the only thing he could cook. Not anymore!

Last week I came home from work (I usually work from home so that I can homeschool him, but I go into the office on Fridays), and I could tell by the smell that something had been cooked. And not just toast. I put my stuff down and called out, “Nigel?” “Hi, Mom,” he answered from the living room. “How was your day?” I calmly asked. “Fine.” Did I really think I would get more than that? “Did you do your schoolwork?” “Yes,” he said, keeping his eyes on the TV.

“What did you cook?” I asked.

“I made grilled cheese.”

I surveyed the kitchen and noticed that my 12-inch risotto pan was out on the stove with a spatula inside of it (and the remnants of browned butter). The cheese, bread, and butter had all been put away. “Wow,” I said supportively. “How did it turn out?”

“Fine.”

“How did you know how to cook it?”

“From watching you.”

Thus my son proves that, once in a while, he does pay attention. And, more importantly, that he can cook on a gas stove without blowing up the house! Without burning anything! I am so proud. Emeril, watch out.