Holy crap the kids are cooking me dinner. I’m sitting on the couch in our cabin and I’m not doing a damn thing. It’s entirely possible that this night will end with the fire department being called and a trip to the emergency room. I’m not cooking, though, that’s the important thing to remember here.
Things smell a bit funky but that’s ok. I guarantee you I will eat anything that they happen to pull out of the oven. It could be a full on boar, complete with singed hair and burnt tusks and I would eat that shit like I’m a starving man on the plains.
For the past two days, we have done adventures while the kids are on spring break. We have seen a 6-foot tall human mouth, weird statues, fired a catapult, put our heads in the stocks, have played mini-golf, gone swimming in a lake, and of course have seen a troll and a henge. And fishing. We have gone fishing twice.
I hesitate to call this fishing, though. Maybe the kids would call this fishing. The lady at the state office asked me if I would be fishing personally and would need a license. I laughed at her little joke. I would not be fishing. I would be constantly untangling lines and dodging hooks that were cast by my head. This is not fishing, this is the last stage in a survivalist show where the winner gets to go home and smell like worms. Do you need a license for that?
At the end of it all, we are at a cabin. A nice place where we can get an actual bed in the pristine beauty of nature. This is so we can ruin the quiet reflection of the lake by screaming constantly. It’s just not a vacation to me unless I’m am constantly apologizing to random folk.
The smoke detector is now going off. It sounds like the bell from Rocky IV and Mick is telling me that I have to get up. My son tells me that they might have forgotten to set the timer. That's ok I tell him. Life is full of success and failures and sometimes that failure involves the loud blaring of the smoke detector. I tell him that I will 100% eat whatever they have cooked.
“Even if it’s yucky, Dad?”
“Especially if it is yucky. Yucky is a feast when you don’t have to cook yourself,” I tell him. He doesn’t understand but that’s ok. The point is, I am going to have to apologize to a park ranger very soon so I need to get my shoes back on.