"A" Vegetables and Free-Range Babies

The dinner would prove prophetic.

Intended as a way to fête H.'s book in advance of the launch party later that evening, our dinner on Saturday was composed almost entirely of "A" vegetables. I hadn't fully worked out the symbolism, but it seemed like an amusing way to give the book high marks. A for Awesome.

We were forced, however, to consume the meal in haste. And thus it became a sign portentous.

I shopped for the dinner with no small degree of glee. Artichokes, Asparagus, Arugula. I considered buying an Aubergine. They all looked sickly, however so I let them lie. The Aubergines reverted back to humble eggplants. Then I switched to fruit: Avocado, Apples, Anjou pears. As I wheeled the cart through the supermarket, I chuckled to myself. How could this go wrong.

A meal of "A" vegetables. I had in mind a salad of arugula, apples, and toasted almonds, with perhaps a bit of avocado on croûtons. Then we would turn to the steamed artichokes, served au naturel, with cruets of drawn butter. The artichokes is a vegetable that somehow signifies victory. Each leaf, dredged scandalously in butter, anticipates the great revelation at the thistle's heart.

As it turns out, we would only manage to unfurl one of our artichokes, with the other relegated to the fridge until long after midnight. Portentous indeed.

After the artichokes, the plan was to become a shade more spartan. We would follow, let's say, with a simple pasta tossed with roasted asparagus, accompanied by fresh bread. The dinner would culminate with poached Anjou pears.

It didn't quite happen that way. We ate the avocado for lunch, and there were no almonds. So the salad included apples and radishes: more of an "Arrrrr" salad than a true "A" vegetable salad. No matter. Who needs purity.

Short on time, and with our babysitter at the door, we roasted the asparagus and ate everything all at once, denuding only the first artichoke and leaving most of the salad unscathed. The pears were abandoned. And so was the second artichoke. We rushed to the party, where there was a great abundance of food.

Strangely, most of the food at the party began with "S." There was sushi; there were shu mai; there was sausage; there were snacks.

It seems that our earlier meal, rushed and compromised as it was, had little to do with the metaphorics of parties, books, or victory. Instead it gave us a hint of what the week to come would offer: Rushing. Compromising. And chasing after A.

On Saturday morning— the day of the meal, and the day of the party– we bought our free-range baby a "big girl" bed. A. had been climbing out of her crib for over a week, dropping to the floor with an enormous thump each time. The thump would inevitably be followed by a protracted wail. This would be followed, in turn, by the sound of parental footsteps rushing to the scene. We always expected the worst.

Luckily, the worst was only this: a thump, a wail, a rush to the scene. And then the spectacle of little A., stark naked, straddling the rail of her crib like a miniature Lady Godiva. Naked and wailing.

We bought her a big-girl bed that day. Ever since then, we've been chasing our free range baby around the house for hours each night. H. spent Sunday and Monday nights working three-hour bedtime shifts on her own, since I had to be out of the house. The past few nights have improved, if only by slow degrees. She climbs into bed with us each morning, touching our faces until we wake up.

Perhaps we should have stuck to "S" vegetables for that fateful Saturday dinner: Sorrel, Spinach, Squash, Seaweed, Salsify, Sunchokes. Anything to invoke sleep, sleep, sleep.