My teenage son thumps down a large cookbook in the middle of the kitchen island counter. He opens the page and points to a full page photograph of a blue and white bowl containing chicken pieces bathed in a light orange sauce, green cilantro leaves jauntily placed from the edge of the dish.
He is triumphant. “There ma, you have no excuses!” He taps the picture, “Here is the recipe for butter chicken. So when I ask for it, no more saying ‘let’s get it at the restaurant.’ We have the recipe right here! You can make it any time.”
Of course, the feminist lesson would be, “Why don’t you make it yourself?” But we’ll save that for another time. At the moment I am just shocked that he took the initiative to actually explore my cookbook bookshelf and find the recipe.