Maffew do it.
My mama, Mamatouille, was busy making lots and lots of baby food to freeze for my brother (see those carrots and all that oatmeal?), so she asked me to make the scrambled eggs for our mid-morning snack the other day. I happily obliged because eggs are one of the few proteins I will actually let past my lips. Discriminating taste is a good thing for a chef, I've heard.
I'm really good at stirring.
And I really really really like to twirl the whisk. It's my new hobby.
Mama says I'm scarily good at unscrewing bottle tops now, and she let me add the seasoned salt to the egg mixture. It was pretty salty that day but Mama says every once in a while, a little saltiness won't hurt anybody.
Joel's awake. Whale song, again.
How do you like my bed hair? When Daddy saw these pictures, he called it Eccentric Chef Hair.
I know how to open the fridge door, get stuff out, take the top off, shake it (turmeric is good for getting pretty, bright yellow spots on your clothes - you should try it sometime), screw the lid back on, put it back in the fridge, then take it out again, leaving the fridge door open till it beeps.
More senbei, please.
Smelling spices is another of my new hobbies, and I like basil better than oregano. Mama does, too, so I guess that's where I get it from. Mama tries hard not to laugh (I see it in her eyes though she does try to hide it, bless her), but when I "smell", I actually blow out air from my nose. Makes it all less tickly, somehow.
I also added some shredded mozzarella cheese to the eggs ('cause that's what Mama had in the fridge) and a splash of whole milk, then Mama selfishly decided that she wanted to be the one to cook what I had so carefully mixed together. It came out OK anyway, even though she took over, and I had mine with some ketchup, which is the only way to eat eggs, scrambled or fried. Mama's weird and for some odd reason likes salsa on hers.
Parents. You gotta wonder sometimes.