With bacon

I love it when Cro Magnon tells me how to cook.

He never cooks.

But he has lots of advice.

“You gotta be creative when you cook,” he says, watching while I grate an onion into a meatloaf that 14-yo asked for. “You gotta experiment more. You don’t experiment enough.”

Where’s my knife? I think.

“A good cook doesn’t just ‘follow the recipe,'” he says over his coffee and the morning paper, making quotation signs in the air. “A good cook tries new things.”

“Try new things, mmmhhmm.” I say, grating.

He takes a sip of coffee. Because he’s not done. Telling me how I should be cooking. “And you go too fast. You try to cook everything too fast. How many times have I told you…”

Knife? Where’s the knife? (I’m thinking. Again.)

Cro Magnon continues: “You gotta cook it on low heat. Loooow heat,” he says. For emphasis. As if I don’t get what “low” means, but I might understand the word “loooow.”

I’m going to cut him.

“You know what else?”

Now I’m really going to cut him.

“You could put bacon on that.”

Good idea.

But I don’t tell him that.

Spiritual elixir

So Lent is coming. Tomorrow.

Last year, I decided to give up drinking wine on Thursday nights and Sunday nights. It was difficult, but I did it.

“What’s the significance of Ash Wednesday?” I ask my little sister who’s really Catholic and goes to church every Saturday or Sunday and sometimes during the week. On her lunch break. We’re talking on the phone on Lent Eve.

“You know, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From ashes we came and back to ashes we go,” she says. “Repent and turn toward the Bible. And the 40 days of Lent signifies the 40 days Jesus was tempted by the devil and resisted…”

“Uh huh. I did know that,” I say, feeling sort of good about my Catholic-ness.

Little sister continues, “And the Jews wandered the desert for 40 years.”

“That’s a long time,” I say. “What were they looking for?”

“Oh you know, I don’t know, the land of milk and honey?” she says.

“Well they weren’t going to find it in the desert,” I say. Snort. Chuckle. Snort.

Then we discuss what we’re giving up for Lent. Her kids want to try giving up junk food. Her husband wants to give up yelling. I tell her Cro Magnon wants to give up chocolate and ice cream. And I think I’m going to give up drinking wine on Thursday and Sunday nights. Again.

“Oooh. That’s hard,” she says. Understandingly.

“Yeah. It is,” I say, thinking about my unholy spigot attached to the Bota Box of Pinot Noir. I love that feeling of almost weekend. When I break open a fresh box. Press a wine glass underneath and let if flow. I can feel the anxiety and tension wash away like sins in a baptism pool, just thinking about it.

“I like Thursday nights. It’s like it’s almost the weekend and you get this little kick off,” she says. My sister understands me so much. I love her.

“Yes.” I say. “And then on Sunday nights – it,s even harder. I just have this anxiety. Like the weekend is over. And you have to start a whole new week,” I say.

“Yeah. It’s just like you’re making it last a little while longer,” she says.

“As long as I have my box of wine, I’m ok,” I say.

“Yeah.” she says.

“Yeah.” I say.

“You know Jesus was called a glutton and a drunkard,” she says.

“Nooo.” I say. “Why?”

“He didn’t follow their rules. He turned water into wine. It was a spiritual elixir… ” she says.

“Wine is all over the Bible.”

“It is.” she says.

“And it’s got antioxidants.” I add. Just in case.

Stop the press

Cro Magnon is still at it.

“How come,” he says to me one morning over coffee before I’m off to work, “the computer keeps repeating a letter?”

Me: “What?” (I emphasize the “t.” To show him I’m annoyed.)

Cro Magnon: “When you press a letter and you keep your finger on it. Why does it keep typing that letter?”

Me: “Because you’re not supposed to hold the key down. You’re supposed to tap it once. Once for each letter.”

Cro Magnon: “That’s f—— up.”

Me: “Yeah. I know.”

Cro Magnon: “Alright. I got it. One press for one letter.”

Me: “Yes. Very good.”

Cro Magnon: “I’m on my way…”

Me: “Yes.”

Cro Magnon (happily): “Wait til I start sending emails.”

Lord.

And still

Cro Magnon still does not get it.

I wrote a week ago about his entry into the online world, passwords, sign ons and such.

He’s getting better, but he’s still having trouble.

I don’t believe it.

The kids think this is funny. Even they know how to make a capital letter on the keyboard.

But not Cro Magnon.

Taken from an actual conversation.

Cro Magnon (from his chair in front of the tv): “Explain to me how to make a capital letter again.”

Me (doing dishes, after dinner – which I made – after working all day): No response. Because I want to make him say it again. Out loud. (Yes, I’m passive aggressive. Because it’s fun.)

Cro Magnon: “Did you hear me?”

Me (making a big show of drying my hands off with a towel): “What?”

Cro Magnon: “How do you make a capital letter?”

Me: “Are you serious?”

Cro Magnon (getting irritated): “I’m asking you how to make a capital letter.”

Me: “Wow. Ok. You have to shift?”

Cro Magnon: “What do you mean shift?”

Me: (can’t believe) “You have to hold the shift key, then tap your letter key.”

Cro Magnon: “Do I hold it down while I press the letter key?” (I’m not making this up, I swear).

Me (talking very slowly): “Yes. You hold down the shift key, press your letter, then let go and continue typing the rest of the letters. Got it?” (Lord.)

Cro Magnon: “Ok, then. I got it.”

Me (in my head): He’s gonna call me up at work.