I wasn’t hungover, but I was craving New Year’s food last night. No bread, just comfort. Phil was too tired to leave the house, and I was ready with a grocery list. "Ugh, if this is going to be a process, I’d rather just eat pizza. I know you, and you always involve me."
"No, I promise. All I ask is that you do a very fine dice of red onion and cook me four eggs while I’m gone. I’ll do the rest. The cleaning, too."
"The directions are on the counter."
"Yeah, how to cook an egg properly."
"You’re kidding right?"
"Ugh, you’re not kidding."
So, we scattered the beans. Girls rule; boys drool. Abigail and I hit Central Market for a girl day of food shopping while Lucas Beckett stayed home to watch football and tackle a Diego puzzle.
I loved everything about the day, the rain, stopping for coffee and a "child water"–water with a lid and straw. Abigail pressing her hands against the pastry glass, singing Annie songs in the car, holding herbs up to her nose explaining what each one does. "Remember potato bug, if it grows together, it goes together." She cradled a spaghetti squash in her arms and referred to it as her baby. She removed the bow headband in her hair and added it to her squash child. "Mama, my baby needs a sweet treat and a smooch." I love when she says smooch.
Once home, I loaded up the fridge, and because I have a habit of forgetting what’s out of sight (aka rotting veggies stashed in drawers), I pinned a list beneath a magnet, detailing all the hidden goods, including Young Miss’s squash baby. Then I made a baby of my own when I composed a salmon tartare.
Phil mastered the hard-cooked Bouchon egg. The process entails a layer of eggs in a saucepan, covered in cold water. Bring the water (with eggs) to a boil, then reduce the heat and let the water simmer for a minute more. Turn off the heat, and let the eggs stand for 10 minutes. While you wait, fill a bowl with ice. Then transfer the eggs to the ice bath, let them sit for several minutes, then drain and peel. Then let mama give you a smooch.