I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to take over Father’s Day with my new favorite thing on this green earth. It was supposed to be about celebrating the man, the dad, the father figure, the brave, strong, absurdly handsome male specie who knocked me up and has been there every step of the way supporting me through grueling 2 a.m. cough, McDonald’s, cough runs or three trips to the grocers in less than an hour for the 16th, 17th and 18th bottles of Russian making, pickling causing vinegar — and that was just during my human oven months. Sure, I could complain that he couldn’t keep a good thing going or rejoice that he finally let us change it for the better, but inadvertently I stole his triumphant day, his first Father’s Day, and made it about me. That’s for 8 hours of labor, bucko.
I jest. I was blessed with the ability to literally pop out an 8-pound man child in barely no time at all — but look at me, I’m stealing the spot light again. We’re here for the four best words — my new favorite words (unless we could some how include vanilla bean — oh wait, I have — and brown butter — I’m sure there is a way!), and admittedly my husband’s as well: 1. Salted. 2. Bourbon. 3. Caramel. 4 .Sauce. It’s no joke. It’s the best. It’s mine. Until you make it and invite me over. Then it will be mine again.