This morning Truman wanted pizza so I thought of a plan to take a tortilla, cheese, carrots he could chop himself and some chicken, stick it in the oven and: pizza.
This made me realize that in all the time I wasn't cooking in the last six or more weeks I didn't notice that Truman really likes to cook.
So what used to be taking time from him, making a mess, cleaning a mess, finding something else for him to do -- often making a mess in the kitchen -- has become a win-win.
So I planned to make these pizzas open face because that is what a pizza is, but Truman wanted a tortilla on top, then while I wasn't looking, another tortilla on top.
If I was looking I would have told him that he didn't need three tortillas in his pizza. That is a lot of tortilla.
But while they were cooking I got distracted and burned them. Well, guess whose pizza turned out great?
The one with the safety tortilla.
I just pealed the burned tortilla off and there it was a perfectly good quesdadi ... I mean ... pizza.
He knows best sometimes. I need to remember that when I am looking and in situations that involve things more important than pizza.
And the rest of our lives is deciding when to trust him and when to trust me.
Wish us luck.
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