It seems you are always happy to cook with me, face-forward in the snugglie, waving your arms like a frantic concert-master. I wonder if you actually think you’re causing the mincing and mashing + stirring with all your furious arm movements. You’ve never gotten to taste any of this stuff (your food comes from breasts + jars). I keep waiting for you to turn and look up at me with a “what the heck are you doing?” stare. But since cooking has as much purpose and meaning in it for you as almost everything else (like facing the opposite way from how we face in the car, or turning the big light in the sky out when we are both home, but leaving it on when one or both of us goes away) you join in the cooking frenzy with relish (salsa?) and appear to enjoy it as much as anything we do together & we do it a lot.