Since I was all too eager to share the mazzo pancake story, it is probably only fair that I give the guy his props as well.
Rico is a wonderful cook. There. I said it.
Much better than me. There. I said that too.
It's not that I am incapable of cooking. I have a few great dishes up my sleeve, and am perfectly capable of following a recipe. I make the best popcorn, and am the only family member who doesn't burn the chocolate chip cookies. But I have nothing on Rico.
He is making omlettes right now. I don't know what's in them, and don't particularly care. I am pretty picky about breakfast food, but he's just that good. He can make something out of anything - like those bums in Stone Soup - which is quite possibly what we are eating.
Last week, when our cupboards could rival Old Mother Hubbard's he made some sort of breakfast quesadilla that Yoda and I both scarfed down in short order. I have no idea what was in that either. In hindsight, I realize that there was nothing to make them with except a potato, a bag of pixie sticks and a few fabric softener sheets.
Like I said - he's that good.