Sydney's "I'm hopeless" chest

As bright and beautiful and creatively talented as Sydney is, her gifts do not necessarily translate in the kitchen. Don't get me wrong, Baby Girl ROCKS the microwave but we worry that her inner Julia Child will forever remain in an infantile state of Spaghetti-Os and boxed mac-n-cheese.

But there's nothing like leaving the nest to encourage the expansion of one's culinary wings. And, as it turns out, our friend Amy had been busy squirreling away kitchenware for Miss Sydney in anticipation of this very moment.

We got off to a sort of rocky start as Sydney began unpacking the boxes upon boxes that Amy had
brought to the house. "This is the weirdest iron that I have ever seen," Sydney declared. There was a brief moment of silence where Amy and my friend Joan judged my ability to mother my child before, in between raucous bursts of laughter, it was explained to my clueless daughter that what she was holding was a mixer. Realizing that I could be brought up on charges of educational neglect, Amy turned her attention to tutoring Sydney. "This coming from a woman whose award-winning chili included a super-secret ingredient of prunes," I argued, feeling betrayed. And a little ashamed (I didn't know it was a mixer either.).

Joan joined the ranks of the confused as we regarded a slender plastic tray that Sydney pulled from a box. "It's a colander," Amy squealed with delight. We just stared at it. It was a tray. But no. With a snap of Amy's wrists, a colander accordioned out of the middle. "It's great because it straddles the sink and is a snap to store," Amy announced. Joan and I were amazed as the colander disappeared like a rabbit in a hat. "I want one of those," Joan admitted.

I sighed when the crystal glasses appeared. "Thirty years of marriage and I'm still drinking out of plastic tumblers," I whispered to Joan. Enough was enough. "This is NOT how you're suppose to start out," I told Amy, jealously eyeing up Sydney's crepe-maker. "I was poor. Paper plates were a luxury." Amy nodded in understanding. "Jeff and I were so poor that we ate salsa toast." I glared at her. "That's called bruschetta," I snapped, "and kings and queens dine on bruschetta. That's not poor. I was poor. I was so poor that we ate saltine nachos. We couldn't even afford pre-shredded cheese." Joan rolled her eyes as Sydney, digging in another box, triumphantly pulled out a grater. "I'll expect saltine nachos when I visit," Joan told her. We concluded our visit with a toast to Sydney. Sans salsa.