When Things Get Fancy, the Spaghetti Gets Going

If you've spent anytime around this rascal ranch very long, then you know it isn't a secret that I don't cook. And when I do cook it is the furthest thing from gourmet. Like Timbuktu far. Add the fact that we might as well have pitched tents at the baseball fields these past couple of weeks, and my stove hasn't seen much action. Unless you can count the fish sticks and pizza rolls that Keaton cooked his brothers for lunch yesterday.

Tonight, though, the boys and I decided to pull out all the stops. We were home, and we thought that we should do it up right.

Spaghetti is about the fanciest meal we have around these parts, and I count it as "cooking from scratch," although I use boxed noodles and canned tomato sauce, but whatever.

The boys got right to work creating their restaurant.

They made a sign.

If you aren't fluent in eightyearoldese, that says "3 Boys Spaghettioni."

And Sawyer is absent from the whole signage fun because just prior to this, he had slugged his brother in the stomach. And I didn't take a picture of him pouting in the chair.

Then they hung it outside.


Notice how excited Sawyer looks about the whole thing. Note....slugging your brother and being put in time out doesn't keep you from being forced to take pictures for your mother.

The staff of the restaurant also obviously forgot to tend to the landscaping before opening day. (Remember.....I don't do plants. I also obviously don't move the pots off the sidewalk that have the remains of former plants that I have killed.)

They made a menu.

They set the table. Tablecloth and everything. And even busted out the fancy candles. And wrapped the silverware in napkins.

They divvied up "jobs." And everyone got eyeliner mustaches. Except for me. Because goatee didn't match my outfit.

Keaton was the maitre d'.

Sawyer was the waiter. He named himself "Ostiano." Apparently it is authentically Italian. So says the Irish-looking redhead who was still being grouchy about having his picture taken.

Tate was the chef. Complete with a paper hat. Those bread twisty things....yay.....he did those himself. I think he washed his hands.

And I cooked the spaghetti. Which no picture was taken of. But, that's okay, because without a cool mustache, it just wouldn't have been that interesting. Although I did almost burn the sauce, which is pretty typical. I'm not a multi-tasker. Which could be why I HAVE to stick to one-step recipes!

Dad called and gave us the word that he was on his way home from his softball game. The boys scurried around to put all the last minute touches on the surprise dinner. We lit the candles. We turned off SpongeBob. And Keaton found some dinner music on my computer.

Good choice, huh? He said it was the most "Italian" thing he could find. Uh-huh.

The boys were so excited when Kirk walked through the door. They greeted him with their best Italian Redneck Arkansas accents. And Sawyer took his order on an old Mary Kay pocket calendar.

Excuse the grossness of the husband.....I think he was less than thrilled that I was taking pictures of him in his fresh-off-the-softball-field state. All for the sake of the blog, honey, all for the blog.

After a yummy dinner, fantastic mood music (which was set on repeat...much to my delight!), and a near-choking incident with Chef Tate (never a dull moment!), Kirk was presented with the bill.

And the announcement was made that tomorrow night is Mexican Restaurant night.

And that Tate is to play the maracas.

Excellent.