Family, Life, Recipes


08.29.10 | 1 Comment

Zoe is quite the character. She talks constantly and keeps us laughing. When we tell her she’s smart, or thoughtful, or sweet, or cute, or any one thing (we usually expand, of course), she always adds, “AAAAND funny! Dbbldeedut.” That’s her personification of “funny.” It seems clear that developing her comedienne self is important to her.

Sometimes this saves her from punishment made in irritation. We have to be firm, but it is SO HARD to keep a straight face with some of the things she does.

Yesterday we were making Homesick Texan’s biscuits. She was very helpful and involved, and throughout the process she told me how much she likes to make things with me. I know. My heart was a big puddle of happy. So I reprimanded her lightly when she started eating the small pieces of butter she was cutting for the dough.

We beat, rolled out, and cut the dough using my great-grandmother’s tools and carefully arranged them on the cookie sheets. (With each lovely circle she made, she reminded me that she “sure needs a coin for that one!” — she can earn coins for good deeds to go in her Hello Kitty bank.) The pan with fewer biscuits needed a more decorative touch, and we made a flower. Zoe decided it needed a dough stem. So I borrowed some dough from one of the larger biscuits and she made a stem while I went to get my camera.

When I returned, she told me, “I did NOT eat the biscuit muffins,” and she held up the cookie sheet for me to take a picture. There was no stem.

“Where is the stem?” I asked.
“I put it right there,” she said, pointing to an appropriate, but empty, place on the cookie sheet.
“And where is it now?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes darted.
“Did you eat the stem?”
“Um, yes.”

I appreciated that she told the truth, and I didn’t care if they had a stem or not, and she hadn’t lied: she did not eat the biscuit muffins – only the stem. (The biscuits turned out beautifully. Make them once you can feel your blood just flying through those arteries and you’d like to slow it down.)

Later she asked for noodles; specifically, she wanted to make pasketti noodles with my assistance. Directing her toady from atop her stool, we boiled water, discussed the repercussions of the various heat-induced injuries that are possible when using the stove, and broke the dry noodles in half for her later convenience in eating. When the timer went off, she sampled and approved the pasketti for draining. I took the pot to the sink to do said job, and when I came back to the stove, she was quickly removing her finger from the softened butter, which was waiting in the wings for its time to shine.

“Zoe, are you eating the butter again?”
Her lips are glistening when she tells me no.
“Are you telling the truth?”
She waits a beat, looks down at the ground, and quietly says, “No.”

I’m glad again that she is admitting her lie and getting around to the truth, and when she lifts those eyes of hers to meet mine, coupled with an impish smile, the only thing I can do is hug her.

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