Miranda

Not quite a chef's hat...yet.

The other night, I put Miranda to bed at 7:20.  At 8 p.m.,  I hear her door open and close.  I go check on her.  “Sweetie, what’s the matter?”
“”Nothing.” From the back of the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Just lying here,” she says
“Why did you get up?” I ask
“I need to write something down.”  She declares with so much assurance you’d think she could write unassisted.
“What do you want to write down?”
“Yogurt. Cinnamon. Xylitol. And a protein drink.”  I have to think about this.
“Do you mean protein powder in the yogurt?” I ask.
“No.  Protein drink for the drink with the yogurt.”  Once again she’s so sure.  I realize this is a recipe.
“I’ll write it down for you and put it at your place at the table.”
“O.k., I’m going to make you breakfast.” I pause.  That could be messy…and inedible.
“No, that’s o.k..  Breakfast is already in the fridge. We can make the cinnamon yogurt another time.”  We go around about this a few more time and she relents.
The next morning, she gets up quietly and I find her in the kitchen stirring something in one of her school thermoses–one of the only bowl-like things she can reach. –She asks for xylitol.  I see cinnamon in yogurt in the thermos.  I add xylitol and thank god she didn’t try to get it herself from the very heavy glass jar.
She announces that she’s made my breakfast and takes a taste.  It’s apparently good because she won’t stop eating it.  I try it…awesome.  The child is a savante.

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