Baby Tray

Gourmandise returned for a brief stay this weekend, as if we were nothing more than a rural pied-à-terre. "Helloo!" was its cavalier greeting, as it breezed through the house and made itself comfortable, leaving an disastrous mess in the kitchen. "Let's eat!" And then, just as abruptly, it vanished.

But more on this anon. We did make a fish stew of sorts this weekend, and I'm very pleased with the recipe. And the pannetone bread pudding that followed was also quite fun. Again, though, this was just a short visit: gourmandise was merely passing through.

I would like to dwell, however briefly, on the more familiar sight that meets us every evening. This, as much as anything else, is what the word "dinner" tends to signify:


Harsh is the landscape we traverse each night on the road through dinner!

The meal itself is assembled according to a precise formula: chicken nuggets, green beans, spaghetti-O's, cheese, hummus, and the inevitable and highly-anticipated cup of applesauce. Each soft food is to be accompanied by its own corresponding spoon, per A's instance ("New 'poon? New 'poon?"). Yet the aftermath varies nightly. Each new tray yields a new terrain of crags and furrows. And any effort to wipe A's hands and face clean only further redistributes the gray paste she creates anew at every meal.

Gourmandise thus tends to make house calls later in the evening, as a rule.

Which at least partially explains why it's so easy to poach snacks from the Baby Tray. Is that an unsullied portion of a chicken nugget? Are you going to finish that cheese, kiddo? Daddy gets hungry, you know.