Mama's Little Baby Loves Short'nin Bread

I'm an indifferent cook. I can pull together a few things, but ultimately the grinding reality of three meals a day, seven days a week, month after month after month after month, makes me want to lie down and call the Thai place. Intermittently, this bothers me and I rouse myself for up to a week at a time before sliding back into the entropy of veggie burritos. In between my sparks of conscience, this failing on my part periodically bothers the child. Recently, for several days in a row, she brandished recipes at me. I'm not completely without wit. Eyes squinted, I said "You want me to cook like Aunt Laura, don't you?"

(The kid's aunt is one of those graceful people whose family eats well all the time and she's such a wretch that she doesn't even brag about it.)

"Well..." she hedged, and then nimbly turned the subject back to the card in her hand.
"Look! Only four ingredients!"

"You're right," I said, glancing over the recipe, "In fact, you could make this yourself. You're old enough. I'd be there to assist, but you could start making a dinner a week."

Daughter looked at me, at the recipe, at the stove.

"See," she said, after a beat, "I like thinking about cooking more than I actually like cooking."

I grabbed her and hugged her close. I started to speak, and cleared my throat.

"I know, baby. I know. Let me show you where the Thai restaurant card is."