Funny Guy Friday... Hey, good lookin'... whatcha got cookin'? How's about cookin' somethin' up for me...

     Funny Guy Friday is written each week by my husband Mark. So, I married a funny guy...
     I called home a few weeks ago and informed the love of my life that I had some clients coming to the house but that I was running late. I advised that these folks are friends of mine, and it was safe to invite them into the dining room. I would be along shortly thereafter.
     When I got home, my clients were seated in the dining room, so I quickly greeted them and poked my head into the kitchen to say my hellos. On the counter was a tray containing some drinking glasses and a pretty, crystal pitcher of ice water topped with lemon slices. Not just any glasses... but our nice drinking glasses. You know the ones... they are so high up in the cabinet that you have to get a chair to get them down. They are much too good for us to ever use. My sweetie had gone to great efforts to make a beautiful presentation.
     Is this for us? I inquired.
     Yeah... I figured that you all may want something to drink, and we had some lemons, so I though it would be nice. 
     Wow! Thanks. 
     As I carried on with my meeting in the dining room, I noticed a flurry of activity in the kitchen... as well as the sweet smell of tomato sauce. Suddenly, the doors to the dining room were pulled shut and I was left to talk with my clients privately.
     After I concluded my meeting and my guests departed, I quickly made my way into the kitchen to see what all the action was about.
     It appears that ravioli and meatballs were in my immediate future, but evidently, there were some problems preparing the meatball part of the meal. The onions and garlic had been chopped, the eggs were waiting to be cracked, and the salt, pepper, bread crumbs, and Parmesan cheese were ready to go. The problem was that the ground beef was still frozen, and there appeared to be no ground veal anywhere.
     Typically, none of this would be a problem. Cheryl always knows the right microwave setting, and she remembers exactly where to find the ground veal... assuming that we have some.
     But you see... Cheryl was not home... she was spending the day at the hospital with her mom who had had hip surgery.
     Did you think Cheryl was doing all of this stuff? No, no, no... it was Noah.
     You see Noah is the new love of my life. He is my sweetie.
     He has taken up cooking, and get this... cooking is considered a class in home school. How great is that? Measuring the ingredients is part of math, nutrition satisfies the health requirement, and cooking involves chemistry... I guess.
     By the way, a ten-year-old cooking meals? Yeah... we are not talking burgers and dogs.
     So far, Noah's repertoire has included stuffed acorn squash, spaghetti and meatballs, steaks on the grill, scallops in a white wine sauce (speaking of scallops, how many dads have their ten-year-old call them and ask if he can pick up some scallops on the way home for a recipe I want to try out), bang bang coconut shrimp with mango salsa, meatball subs, and under the tutelage of his wonderful Aunt Annie, lasagna.
     Yes, Cheryl's sister Ann has fallen in love with Noah, as well. A couple of weeks ago, she drove three-and-a-half hours just to give him a goody bag full of cooking gadgets. Okay, maybe she was also stopping along the way to visit with Cheryl's mom, but given the way she feels about Noah, I think that Ann's visit with her mom was secondary.
     And my heart's desire doesn't make just dinners; Noah also makes some killer desserts. We have had pumpkin pie, apple crostata, baklava, and of course, the all-American milkshake.
     When Cheryl and I were first married, I made a little promise to myself that once a week, I would bring home flowers for her. We were young and thrilled to be together. I would rush home to see her and to find out what was waiting for me once I got there. I suppose it was the novelty of being married.
     So, I ask... is it weird that I now have that same feeling about Noah? I mean, I don't want to bring him flowers or anything, but still. To be completely honest, that flower thing only lasted for about a month, anyway.
     But with Noah, I am excited to get home and see what's cooking. When I call home, I can't get Cheryl off the phone fast enough; I want to talk to Noah and see what we are having for dinner.
     Noah watches all the cooking shows. Bobby Flay is akin to Peyton Manning in the cooking world. From what I can tell, Bobby Flay is on about eighty percent of the shows on the Food Network. There is Grill It with Bobby Flay... Cooking with Bobby Flay... Beat Bobby Flay... The Iron Chef with Bobby Flay... Throw Down with Bobby Flay... and Bobby Flay Can Play Croquet. Okay, I just made that last one up... but you get the picture.
      Noah watches the Food Network all the time, and I wouldn't dare stop him. Not only do I not stop him, I encourage him... and will physically hurt anybody that interferes with his marathon TV sessions. Giada... Ina... the crew from the Kitchen... They are all friends of his.
     Of course, unfortunately, he does have other interests. He recently asked about going out for basketball. I tried to discourage it.
     Wait... Noah if you play basketball, you will have to practice at least two or three nights a week.
     I know. I like to practice. Lots of running and exercise...
     Who needs that? You do understand that if you are out practicing, you won't be home cooking. We already miss you on Tuesdays because of CCD. Can we... I mean... can you really afford two more nights out of the kitchen?
     Mom can make dinner. 
     Yeah.. right... sure. Maybe you can skip practices... I checked out the rules, and they have to play you half the game no matter what. 
     Dad, I can make dinner the other nights. 
     Whatever. Go play your stupid little basketball game. You do realize you are only going to be about five-foot-ten. I have done some research, and that is the perfect height for a chef! 
     Here is the good news... Thanksgiving is just around the corner. Noah won't have any of those pesky little games or practices. He will be free to cook until my stomach... er uh... until his heart's content.
     Who knows, I may even bring him some flowers.