Chapter 14
Rex's Kitchen Capers: A Husband's Tale
A humorous look at Rex's unique role in the kitchen. From his affectionate 'dingbat' calls to his appreciation for snacks, Rex is part of the fun! I have noticed that finally over the latter part of 16 years that Rex is paying attention and showing interest in what I do. I ask him if something needs more seasoning and what He thinks would taste awesome... He lives what They call in the hills little breads. Take a box of Bisquick or any baking mix follow meauremebts for bisquits Add 3 tablespoons of rapid quick rise yeast add a table spoon of sugar add 1/4 cup of warm water. Let the yeast bubble and add to biscuit mix for milk use buttermilk or soy or nut milks. Follow baking directions on box. Use the Yogurt Spread and My rose petal jam recipe. Take sure jell add sugar to taste add rise petals or whole berries or peppers of any kind.....cook until thickened and jar as You normally would.
Rex, bless his patient heart, has always been a creature of habit. For sixteen years, he’s watched me flit around the kitchen, a whirlwind of flour dust and flying utensils, often with our furry tornado twins, Peanut and Buster, nipping at my heels. He’s a man of quiet observation, that one. He’d nod, offer a bemused smile, and usually be found with a book or engrossed in some intricate project he’d conjured up in his workshop. My ‘dingbat’ moments, as he so affectionately terms them, were more of a spectator sport for him. I’d be rummaging for the vanilla extract, only to find it nestled amongst the gardening gloves, or I’d be halfway through beating egg whites into fluffy peaks before realizing I’d grabbed the salt instead of the sugar. Rex, with his uncanny ability to remain calm amidst my culinary chaos, would just shake his head, a twinkle in his eye, and let me find my own way back to sanity.
But lately, something has shifted. It’s subtle, like the first hint of spring in the air, or the way Peanut’s ears perk up when he hears the crinkle of a treat bag. Rex has started… paying attention. Not just to me, but to the *process*. He’ll wander in, not with a book, but with a curious tilt to his head. He’ll linger by the counter, watching me chop and stir, and then, he’ll ask.
“Needs more seasoning, Amy?” he might venture, his voice a low rumble that’s always so comforting. Or, more surprisingly, he’ll offer a suggestion. “What do you think would taste awesome there?” he’ll murmur, his gaze fixed on the bubbling concoction. It’s a small thing, really, but for someone who’s spent years perfecting his art of serene detachment, it feels monumental. It’s as if he’s finally stepping onto the dance floor, ready to join in the culinary waltz.
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