For dinner last night, we had chicken-noodle soup with homemade biscuits. Ian wanted his with peanut butter and jelly; the biscuit, not the soup. You’d think a peanut-butter-jelly sandwich on a buttery, fresh-from-the-oven biscuit wouldn’t last long in the hands of a three-year-old. Twenty minutes later, you’d realize you were wrong.
We had last-minute plans to visit a bookstore, and stop for rice-krispie treat fixin’s on the way home. I wanted to get the show on the road.
‘Ian, if you don’t hurry we won’t have time to make rice-krispies.’