Next Time Read The Recipe FIRST

My kids are rather adventurous eaters, and who am I to deny them their favorites? Of course, one of their favorites is McDonald's and I deny that all the time, but still -- I suppose you could say I indulge them when their requests are healthy. Anyway, they're particularly fond of an Italian white bean soup they order every time we eat at a particular restaurant (they also like the chocolate shell this place puts on top of ice cream; consequently they refer to this restaurant as "Gold Brick"). The owner graciously gave me a list of ingredients but no measurements or instructions because he figured, correctly, that I'd rarely need to produce a bathtub full of soup; I knew I could figure it out.

Yesterday I put a package of white beans in a huge pot to soak overnight. This morning I drained the water, replaced it with chicken broth, and simmered the pot on the stove for an hour.

This afternoon, after looking up a white bean soup recipe on the internet, I strained the broth into a bowl, filled the pot with water, and put it back on the stove so the beans could cook correctly.

hmph.

If I did everything perfectly the first time life would hold no surprises.

Self Indulgent Bragging on My Son the Creative Genius

In the car on the way home from school last week Robespierre volunteered: "I just invented a new recipe. Wanna hear it?"

Robey's poems, stories and other narratives are frequently endless, convoluted and filled with blood, gore, lasers, rockets, colossal extinct reptiles and questionable bodily functions.

Me (not in the mood but game for anything that might not involve hitting, screaming, food spilling, pulling over to the shoulder of the road, tattling and general sibbling on the ride home): "Okay."

Robey: "Grind up an apple, a potato and an onion and fry it like a pancake."

Me (ears perking up at the mention of actual food and now paying attention): "Wow. That sounds good. Where did you see that?"

Robey: "I made it up."

Apparently he did make it up, as further interrogation turned up no evidence of eavesdropping, plagiarism or the influence of television, comics, classmates or the internet.

When we got home Robespierre took out the food processor and made potato apple latkes. They were delicious! Here's the recipe, as he wrote it:

ROBESPIERRE’S LATKES (POTATO PANCAKES)
Ingredients
3 potatoes
1 onion
1 cut up apple
2 spoons of soy flour
6 shakes of cinnamon
1 carrot
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 shakes of salt
How To Make
1. Process (grate) all ingredients in a food processor
2. Mix together with hands
3. fry
4. enjoy

He was so proud of his recipe that he submitted it to the school newspaper; in his deeply earnest way he's wondering how many of his friends ran home the day the paper came out and tried it.

Today is Pi Day!

Okay, without any hinting, how many of us know what "Pi Day" is? Anyone? Anyone? Put down your hands, math people -- let somebody else have a turn.

Nobody?

All right, I'll tell you.

Today is March 14, or 3/14, or Pi, that is, 3.1415 blah blah blah. Robespierre's fourth grade class is celebrating Pi Day with ... pies, of course (I love this school!) Parents were encouraged to bring in whole pies, which the class, who are studying fractions, will practice on and then eat; in other words, they'll divide and conquer (do you love the puns? I'm full of them! If you don't care for puns you might as well unsubscribe right now.)

We made a chocolate meringue pie. Before baking it I placed a Pi-shaped stencil made of parchment paper on top and sprinkled dark cocoa over it. Robey was completely mortified; I suppose I was toeing the line between cool and profoundly nerdy, but as soon as he walked in to class he regaled one of his teachers with a minutely detailed description of the Pi on his pie. A few other pies were similarly decorated, thank goodness.

Maybe we'll bring a pizza when Cleo reaches 4th grade. Meanwhile, the meshuggenah French teacher is planning a party for tomorrow in advance of Spring Break, so we've been asked to bring in French food for the class, and French fries don't count.

Am I Lazy, or Clever?

My mother threatens to cut me out of her will for oppressing her grandchildren when I require them to clean up the kitchen after dinner. It takes some management and encouragement: "We're done!" "Did you do everything?" "Oh, yeah." "Did you look at the kitchen with Mawmaw's eyes?" "Weellll..." "Go look again."

Occasionally their enthusiasm inspires them to take all the dirty dishes out of the dishwasher and wash them by hand, using lots of soap and enough water to fill a hot tub.

My kids are pretty self sufficient, for spoiled twenty-first century children. They make their own snacks, sometimes even choosing healthy foods, and they often make their own breakfast. What do I care if they want chicken noodle soup for breakfast -- it's food, isn't it? (Remember Bill Cosby's outstanding routine about serving his kids chocolate cake and grapefruit juice for breakfast?) So last week I engaged in a little experiment. I asked Cleo and Robey to make dinner for all of us; the only rules were that they had to make something I don't hate, and burning down the house would be discouraged. When they called me in to dinner they very proudly showed off one frozen pizza and two cans of peaches.

It's a start. I'm looking forward to the day they use ingredients.