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“This is good,” Peter said as he shoveled in another forkful of my spinach pasta primavera. My dad nodded and kept chewing.
“Excellent, honey,” my mom said. “You’re hired.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “If you’d like to make a little extra money every week, I’d be happy to hire you as our personal chef.”
“Great idea,” my dad said.
“But—” I didn’t want to say anything in front of Peter, but I knew they probably wouldn’t want to eat everything I might make. My dad and Peter are pretty partial to their hot dogs and microwave chimichangas.
But then something occurred to me—a way to make my life a little easier.
“Would you do all the grocery shopping?” I asked my mom. “If I gave you a list?”
My mother is no slouch at negotiation. “It depends. How many nights would you coo
