Let Them Eat Cake.

I've heard the kitchen referred to as the heart of the home.

I never really got that until now.

See,

I've wanted stools for thee ole kitchen island. I've waited out of pure cheapness. And, well, it just doesn't get much better than $19 for a tall saddle-style stool,

so I took the plunge. Finally.


And in all cheesy-gooey-Mommy-ness, I am in love with this cozy kitchen feeling.

I don't have a huge, mile-long island like you fancy dancy people; mine's real small. I prefer the term "intimate".

I've got all my lil homies all up in my face.

And it's a good thing. Breakfast time, lunch time, snack time, homework/snack time--

Kids half-nekkid, homegirls coming down for their peaches 'n cream oatmeal in mismatched church shoes,

melts my ice-cold heart, it does.

And behold my assistants!

I love their little fat hands "helping" me.

Mainly. Usually. Mostly.

I'm stretching out mealtimes, here--

I'm making up snacktimes for crying out loud. I just love all my little butt munches chattering and nom noming on whatever we whip up.

We're having cooking classes-- I stand by and observe. Stop the whole dozen eggs from being cracked,

fistfuls of brown sugar eaten, sharp knives being used like ninja swords. You know, that sort of thing.

'Cause it happens.

I guess like little Ron John here, I'm thinking it's a close your eyes and savor it before it's gone moment.

Yeah. It's that good.