I recently developed a ribs recipe for Sunset magazine. I can’t tell you anything else about them except the whole story got shelved and won’t run until next year, if ever. I probably shouldn’t have revealed as much as I have, certainly not as much as I’m going to. I had to cook a lot of ribs in the process. More ribs than we could eat. So I stored a bunch of them in the giant freezer we have in the basement that just may be my favorite thing about our house. My husband went to a talk and was getting home late, so to the freezer I and my one useful hand went.
Ernie and I sat down to eat the ribs together. After many silent minutes of focused gnawing and inhaling, I thought we should have a bit of dinner conversation.
“These are good aren’t they?”
Ernie continued to bite and chew but nodded his head in agreement.
“Do you like how they’re spicy but sweet at the same time?” I said, trying to lure him into a more detailed compliment of my efforts.
“Mama,” he replied, slowing down his speech with great patience and sounding like it was he who was talking to the child, “I like them because they are meat.”
Oh, okay then.
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