Chefs

When I was in New Zealand, the editor we worked with was this completely awesome British man who lived through the original Punk explosion and had seen The Sex Pistols and The Clash in person.  Needless to say, I demanded he give me child raising advice. 

One of his gems was making your children cook dinner for the family.  It gives them a sense of accomplishment and the feeling of creating something.  He suggested bangers and mash with a nice glass of Guinness. 

This coincided with Diana’s purchase of a children’s cookbook.  It’s this awesome flip book thing with cool recipes like “Spaghetti Pie” and, um, I’m sure there are others but we just made Spaghetti Pie.

Diana was working at the wine store (Get your pre-orders in soon, the doors open in December), so I was in charge of the activity.

Luca requested a chef’s apron and I almost died of cuteness.  I managed to get their hands washed and things quickly went downhill from there.

I realized almost immediately that my celebrity chef doppelganger is the abusive, foul mouthed Gordon Ramsay.  From the show where he yells at people and tells them their food is crap.

Oh man did I yell.  My main beef was don’t eat the cheese.  Don’t eat the cheese.  Don’t eat the cheese.  I’d grade a little pile and four little hands would snatch it.  At one point, Elijah cut out the middleman and gnawed at a block of Parmesan.  Diana found the tooth riddled chunk a few days later and threw it immediately into the garbage.

The Spaghetti Pie was a little more involved that a 5 year old and 3 year old could manage.  A lot of chopping and boiling water and a considerable amount of flambé.  But the boys did manage to toss a few handfuls of uneaten cheese into the dish.  I essentially banished them to the TV halfway through prep.

Once out of the oven, I announced it was time to eat their creation!  Luca dove right in and ate two heaping helpings of Spaghetti Pie.  Elijah, on the other hand, immediately pushed his plate away.

Because he did not like the cheese.