Dinner with Sophie

You know I love my boys. You know I'd do anything for them -- in fact, I've done nearly everything for them. They are a constant source of amazement to me -- their joy, their charm, their sheer good looks -- well, I won't go on. You know that The Husband is a chef, a Swiss-trained one, and that his cooking is outstanding. You might not know that I was a chef, and while I haven't worked in a professional kitchen in years and years, I'm pretty confident that I'm a decent cook That fact, coupled with the fact that The Husband has a mistress and is therefore never home for dinner, means that I cook nearly every night.

And can I tell you another fact?

My boys are a pain in the ass to cook for.


Henry is finally at an age where he'll pretty much eat anything at any time, but it's on the run, on the fly, gotta go I'm done. It's purely utilitarian eating -- fuel for the explosive growth into manhood. Oliver, on the other hand, is extremely picky and is becoming ever more so. He appears to have regressed to that weird stage of toddler-hood when strawberries are all of a sudden verboten and  his face takes on the still mask of death when a plate of vegetables is placed before him.

But Sophie? Now Sophie can eat, and she loves nearly everything.  Tonight I made watermelon salad with feta, mint and balsamic vinegar. I scrambled three eggs and threw them in the pan with a pat of butter, some salt and grated mozzarella cheese. I toasted a baguette, and we enjoyed our dinner while the boys ran around outside with their neighborhood friends, not interested in food on the table. It's summertime, so I'm not pushing it. If they want to have a bowl of cereal later, I'll let them do it themselves. I imagine Sophie and I will be eating dinner together, alone, for years to come. I hope I'll get the chance to put some wine in her sippee cup.