The Insanity Diet

My parents like to tell a story about a dinner party they attended about 30 years ago, soon before or shortly after I was born. After greeting the hostess, who was reputed to be an excellent and exacting cook, my father asked if he could help in the kitchen. Yes, the woman replied. Would you slice some carrots into half-inch rounds? Sure, my dad said. Whereupon she handed him not only a knife but a straight-edge ruler.

I submit that this person would be far to lax to pass as Noah's personal chef.

It has been four days since he has permitted us to put a spoon into his mouth. He and he alone, in other words, is the Decider. And he has decided that only the most labor-intensive creations are worthy of his mostly untoothed gums.

Before he consented this afternoon to eat a little pasta with a five-hour Bolognese sauce -- milk reduction, wine reduction, home-preserved tomatoes simmered to microscopic bits -- the only meat preparation he would tolerate were bits of ground beef tiny enough to be crammed inside the pinhole apertures of his Cheerios. I doubt even Thomas Keller is anal enough to do a meal-sized portion of those.

Won't eat bananas pureed, consistent nos to bananas diced, but it turns out that he has nothing against bananas. You just have to mix them into pancake batter and fire up the griddle.

When you type "lamb pancake" into Google and click "I'm Feeling Lucky," I think Noah would approve of the instructions that appear. Trim the lamb of any sinew, chop into medium lengths, and slice very thinly. Combine the lamb, soy sauce, wine, ginger, garlic...