This chocolate cake is chocked full of roasted beets.īeets are trimmed of their greens (which are delicious sauteed) and roasted whole in foil and just a touch of oil. Unless she loves it… then I’m taking all the glory. It’s also your job NOT to tell your mother that there are beets in the cake I’m serving for dessert. It’s your job to make sure that no one gets a third glass of wine. Be natural… and put your arm around me once in a while. Well, don’t act weirder than you usually act. Lastly, she needs to see that I make you happy. It’s all a test… because mothers do not let their sons go quietly… they let them go passive aggressively. She’ll make a face when it’s being served, and enjoy it despite herself. She in her recliner, me sitting on the floor. I need to let her tell me how to do things that I already know how to do, like make a pie, and pluck my eyebrows. I need to eat her casserole, express my desire for the recipe… then I need to do her dishes. I need to stand there and let her envision me as her daughter-in-law. I need to let your mother look me up and down in examination. I need the outfit that says I can damn well take care of myself, and keep her dear and darling son in line for the rest of his life. I need to agonize over the perfect outfit that will make me look sophisticated, but sweet and approachable, womanly without being more womanly that her. It’s a lady thing that perhaps you don’t understand. If I don’t meet her soon, she will surely think me some sort of hussy harlot who was born in a barn and doesn’t much care for other people’s mothers. We’ve been carrying on for a while now… and I need to meet the lady that birthed you, clothed you, slapped you upside the head, and made you the awesome man you are now. Mostly… it’s about how I need to meet your mother.
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