Down Pat

Like most Sunday mornings, yesterday started with us being all waffled up in this house. I'm not yet qualified to go on Top Chef, but I can make a breakfast fit for a king. Granted, it would be a real fat king with high cholesterol, but whatever.

So Ishmael is chomping his waffles, and asks me if he can have some more butter. I say sure, but let me slice it for you. I cut off a generous slab of pure, slightly salted butter. Ishmael stabs it with his fork, puts it in his mouth and starts chewing.

I didn't know what to say. I suspect that as a good Uncle, I should admonish him not to do that. But inside I am wildly impressed that this kid eats pure butter. So I compromised. I told him not to do that when Aunt Cynthia is around to see it.*


*Which puts it in the same category as 'licking syrup off the plate', 'sock ball fight extravaganza', and other important guy stuff that women don't understand.