Yes, he washed his hands after this. And another 87,000 times during class.
I enrolled Chooch in a cooking class at the Young Chefs Academy this past Saturday. I figured someone’s going to have to cook for me once Henry dies (or we break up, whichever comes first), and that someone is probably going to be my son.
Plus, when I asked him if he had any interest in learning, he seemed very enthusiastic. Probably because when he thinks of cooking, his dark mind conjures images of sharp knives.
He also loves it when Chef Ramsey goes ballistic on Hell’s Kitchen.
Chooch was wearing his Ask Me About My Zombie Shirt t-shirt (I swear to God, it does get washed between wears!), which made him an immediate hit with the two instructors. All the moms of the little girls in cutesy-couture sundresses grimaced. Suck it, yuppie moms. (There was a pregnant one who was the yuppiest of them all. Her husband came after the class ended and I immediately wanted to cough the word “douche” into my fist.)
All it took was Chooch putting an apron on to surpass my cooking skills. I mean, he was actually eager to do this! I am never eager to do anything in the kitchen except bark orders at Henry. Now that is something I excel at. And then three separate times, he yelled out, “DADDY, WE SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE!” and at first I was like, “God, child, shut your big mouth. You’re drawing attention to me while I’m trying to stew in the corner” but then I was like, “HENRY YOU SHOULDA PAINTED THE KITCHEN LIKE THIS ONE.”
God, what a happy land that could potentially make our house. It might even curb my suicide daydreams.
Some boy started crying and wailing, “I don’t want to do this!” when the instructor put an apron on him. Seriously? Give me a fucking break. I was having this scathing internal commentary about this crybaby bitch until I checked myself. I mean, really checked myself. Wouldn’t I too cry if some stranger tied an apron to my torso and told me I was going to spend a perfectly fine Saturday morning learning how to make my own fucking lunch?
Chooch just sat there on his stool, staring at this sobbing three-year-old. Then he looked at me, the kind of disgusted look that asked, “What is this asshole’s issue?” But I just shrugged sheepishly.
First they made Popcorn Crunch which was essentially a shoddy batch of Cracker Jack. The instructors passed out plastic pizza cutters and gave each child a small mound of peanuts. Then they expected them to use the pizza cutters to crush the peanuts.
Now, I’m no Alton Brown (who has the same birthday as me; no wonder why he’s so awesome), but that seemed to me like maybe not the best means to crush peanuts. And I was right! It failed miserably. Peanuts were shooting across the floor and kids were getting all frustrated. They switched to plastic baggies and rolling pins after that.
Meanwhile, Chooch and the kid next to him—Noah—began to hit it off. This means they both started talking stupid and ratting on each other.
“YOU JUST TOUCHED YOUR HAIR! NOW YOU HAVE TO WASH YOUR HANDS!”
It was obnoxious. But at least those two were diligent with their sanitation. That’s more than I can say for most of those grubby raggamuffins.
The girl on the left started crying when it was time to eat their plate of germs because she didn’t like it. God, kids are so fucking childish.
Then other stuff happened with the popcorn. Things were added. There was a bowl at one point, with two big green plastic things that I thought were cacti but Henry condescendingly informed me that they were mixing paddles. I think. But they looked like plastic cacti.
Next on the menu was Curbside Sandwich, which was basically a turkey wrap. The kids got to spend the next 19 days grating carrots. I’m pretty sure they each got to use three different grating instruments. It only took Chooch 1 second to do it better than me. Only because I don’t think I have ever grated a carrot.
(Have I ever grated a carrot, Henry?)
(We watched this 1970’s French porn once that had a little bit of carrot-play in it. No grating, though, leaving me inexperienced still.)
As the one instructor passed out turkey slices, someone called out loudly, “People KILL turkeys, you know.” The other moms tittered nervously.
“Who said that?” I asked Henry, because I had been busy Tweeting my suicide note. (You guys, it was so boring there.)
“Who do you think?” Henry muttered.
Apparently, he and Henry had JUST watched something on TV about people killing turkeys. Thank god for perfect timing.
Chooch made me taste the popcorn. I almost puked it back up just thinking about how many of those filthy hands had touched it. But then Henry reminded me of all the filthy weeners I put in my mouth to which I politely replied, “HAHAHAHA YOU’RE RIGHT HENRY THANK GOD I HAVE ORBIT IN MY PURSE.”
Then Chooch harangued Noah for not liking lemonade, which hopefully will give him a complex, since I had at least 59 dozen complexes growing up and firmly believe all children should experience what that’s like. It makes you stronger, children! Miss Erin promises! Better get used to the taste of Slim-Fast now while you’re young!
On the way home, I was recounting all the ladies I didn’t like (including one mom with her pedicured whore-toes shoved into athletic sandals, whose daughter dropped her sandwich on the ground and made me laugh out loud).
“Good thing you don’t judge people,” Henry mumbled.
Chooch claims he had “so much fun” so why am I still struggling to serve him cereal and salami sandwiches everyday? What do I get out of this deal?