I woke up this morning to the sound of the fire alarm going off in the kitchen. I wasn't terribly concerned. I could hear that someone was moving about it there, and the fire alarm, in our house, is often simply kind of a really annoying meal-time bell. I was kind of hoping that I had awaken to pancakes in the making, but when I walked into the room, Munchkin Boy said, "Mom! I've discovered two ways NOT to fix a radish."
At that point I decided I didn't especially want to be invited to partake in his breakfast.
Radishes are not good fried, apparently, and boiled radishes are less than appealing, according to my son. We'd already eaten them raw on salad, fresh from the farmers market. That was a dish he enjoyed, but he is always the boy looking for a more creative way to serve food.
"Did you try the radish sandwich?" I asked.
He turned his nose up. I explained that my father's favorite way to eat a radish was to slice it on a piece of bread with butter. "That just sounds wrong," my son said, but he agreed to try it anyway.
Later he told me, "Mom, I should have learned by now. When you make suggestions, they are usually good ones."
I told him I appreciated his confidence. "I guess I've had an extra 30 years," I told him, "Of learning how not to fix a radish."
But that boy still teaches me new things every day.