Occasionally, I get drafted to stay with my grandkids at supper time, especially when Peter and Bonnie have early evening meetings.
Last night was one such occasion, so I dragged out my little slow cooker earlier in the day to make stew.
I’d also picked up some bread and defrosted brownies for dessert, and had supper on the table by 6.
My son has figured out how to get his crew organized for late dinners, but I haven’t mastered the knack. I’ve found it’s easier to feed them earlier than later because it gives them time to take their showers, do their homework and (most importantly) play their gaming type before they go to bed.
I haven’t used the slow cooker much, but was pleased with its performance and shall plan to put it to work more often. I bought it at a very deep discount years ago; in fact, I had to seize it before a well-meaning friend, who wished to curry favor with a mutual acquaintance, tried to grab it, excusing my capture of the appliance with a condescending smile that after all, I needed it more because her other friend was married (and, thus, had more money).
Rub it in, skank*.
The kids are fussy eaters, and I tried to engage their interest by telling them the stew had a secret ingredient: wine. They started giggling and their eyes widened to the size of silver dollars: “Does Daddy know you are trying to get us drunk?!”
We finished off with hot mulled cider; thus, a reasonably pleasant evening was enjoyed by all.
*I absolutely love this word, which has its origins in the mid-70’s, and am sorry in a way that “byotch” seems to have replaced it as a female pejorative. It’s a thoroughly nasty word, and I’ve applied it here to my friend with affectionate chagrin.