The stewed tomatoes story

I’m taking a break from brewing up some spaghetti sauce with meatballs to write this post.

I’m not sure how much food will be left when it’s done cooking, because my daughter is stirring it.

My daughter is pigging out.

When she was a toddler I was making lasagne while she played with her blocks.

I put meat, garlic and onions in my pan. I opened two cans of stewed tomatoes and set them on the counter.

I prepared the cheesy layers, and filled the noodle pot.

Then I reached the first can to dump it with the meat, but it was empty. I peered into the other one, and it was empty too. Bizarre.

I thought of places I might have absent-mindedly poured them. They weren’t in the meat. They weren’t in the bowl of ricotta and parsley. They weren’t in the sink or on the floor.

Finally I decided I had to run to the market and buy more, but I was reluctant, because it was an admission the tomatoes were actually gone, which I couldn’t fathom.

I scooped up my daughter and called for my son.

Aha. She had tomatoey fingers and cheeks.

She must have sneaked in, stolen the tomatoes, eaten them and replaced the cans — all while I was filling the noodle pot.

That kicked off 13 years of having to guard my tomatoes.

On the other hand, I can leave a hamburger on the table and my dogs won’t touch it. They’re better trained than she is.


One Response to “The stewed tomatoes story”

  1. Gunky Says:

    Come on!

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