We went to the beach yesterday to do a little grilling with Andrew and Des, and to celebrate Laurea’s recent liberation. The events I have not written about here (for lack of space to explain them) are the countless chasing games and role-playing of late-night Amazon deliveries that Kina engaged in with everybody; while exhausting, those were easily as nourishing as the food. The kid was having so much fun, in fact, that the offering of her very first s’more felt almost like an afterthought. I took great care to produce the ideal marshmallow—golden brown, jiggly, almost light enough to float off the stick—and squished it just so between the graham cracker and the chocolate. She took one bite, thought about it, and then raced off to play “mustard” with Des (a game that involves shouting “mustard” and chasing Kina). Despite my recent efforts to “eat healthier”, I ate two s’mores myself; you cannot light a fire and not make s’mores. Kina will learn that—eventually.
Pops Purloins Pasta
The rare alliterative headline, this story is about how I secretly did want a meatball, but (again) am not allowed to eat them at the moment, and so was forced to stealthily pick off her rigatoni while she didn’t notice, until she did. God, I love meatballs.
dad