Food salsa, not dancing salsa. As I epitomize the whole "white people can't dance" stereotype, I don't dance. EVER.
Anywho, generally, when the boy and I discuss dinner, it goes a little something like this:
Me: I'm tired of cooking and then cleaning up after work. I hate cooking. I'm never cooking again. Why don't YOU cook next time? It's YOUR TURN.
The Boy: Ok, I'll bring home a pizza.
Me: (placated) Ok, that works.
But tonight was different. Very different. Because my tomato plants are actually producing more tomatoes than we can keep up with via our usual taco and salad quotas. Oh sure, I could give the tomatoes away to people I know, but I'm not good at sharing. It's not my fault; I'm an old child. And everyone knows only children aren't good at sharing.
So imagine my surprise when tonight we started fighting about who got to make dinner. *insert twilight zone music here*
Me: I want to make the garden salsa. I grew the damn tomatoes, watered them and even picked them.
Boy: But you SAID I could make the salsa this time.
Me: I changed my mind.
Boy: Let's flip for it.
Me: No. I'm making it.
Boy: Well then I'm NOT EATING ANY.
Me: Ohhhh, thaaaat's mature. (stomps upstairs)
While I was making the salsa I realized I had more than enough tomatoes for two batches. So after I was done, I told the boy it was his turn and smoothed things over. Because of course all he wants is to be able to tell me his salsa is better. Preferably in the rudest manner possible.
In the end my salsa was too hot, and his was too mild. When we mixed them together though and added a dash of vinegar, it was pretty perfect. There's some great message in there about compromise and blah, blah, but the REAL moral of the story is to only make garden salsa when you're home alone. Otherwise people will expect you to share your BLOODY tomatoes!