The Hubster asked me to make a "traditional" apple pie this year. No rosemary infused crust, no citrus in the filling. "Fine," I said, "but it IS going to be a mile high, and have smoky molasses notes in the filling, and the lattice crust will be extra dense and smothered in melted butter, cinnamon, and sugar, and you can't stop me."
My Personal Assistant loves all things construction. (It might have something to do with the number of site visits I take him on, but every parent drags their kid to work at some point right?) Diggers, dump trucks, skid steers, flat beds, transporters, front end loaders, steam rollers, tractors, cranes...you name it, he loves it. Oatmeal is not oatmeal any more, it is "construction zone oatmeal". Nothing is picked up with our hands, only with our "crane hands". We even have a scripted conversation about diggers that we have every time we get in the car. The script must not vary, this is not improv. This is serious.
Him: "Can we see some diggers today?"
Me: "Perhaps, if we keep our eyes open."
I got the idea that perhaps he needed a construction zone of his own.
