Kina has developed a truly astonishing talent for glowering during this pandemic, and she wields it frequently. The problem with her master of that expression, though, is that she’s created a baseline of discontent that requires more forceful declarations of real protest. Ergo, the stomping. We don’t have a very large apartment, but Kina can stomp her way through it with the best of them, emitting sounds as she does that are less “sigh” and more “steam valve”. Slamming doors? She’s got it. Foam sword? You’ll get it. As I reflect on it now, I realize that she’s finally at the point of her falling tantrum curve in which stomping is more frequent than weeping (though we very much still have weeping on the dance card), and it makes me grateful that all I finally have a kid whose rage is best expressed through the rolling of her eyes at me and a vigorous stomp away as she yells, “Daddy! You’re! Not! Lissening! To ME!” She is literally the only person on earth who can scream at me and still seem so charming. I’m sure she finds that insufferable.
I want to say, first, that the olive oil is old only by contemporary foodie standards, given that it was one of my last purchases pre-lockdown—a bottle of really nice Spanish oil that I bought in a binge trip to Despaña in Soho, along with some aspirational keep-this-for-quarantine ham that we nonetheless ate for dinner that same night. Second, I will note that strawberries and olive oil go very well together, and I admire Kina for her refined palate and culinary pluck. Finally, I take great pride in the sharpened point of Kina’s zinger here—that Daddy bought this oil so long ago that it predates his own child’s existence. She’s gonna be a real monster, and I love her dearly for it.