Saturday we go to brunch, ordering pumpkin pancakes off the regular menu for Noah, who wolfs down the lion's share despite having eaten his first breakfast two hours before.
Sunday morning, back to normal. I ask Noah if he wants the usual: eggs with ketchup.
"No!"
"What do do you want, then?"
"Pancake!"
"We don't have any pancakes."
Temper tantrum. We compromise with yogurt.
Lunchtime rolls around. "What would you like to eat, Noah?"
"Pancake!"
So, more yogurt, cut with curried chicken. No temper tantrum this time, but a thin veneer of disappointment with useless old dad.
Dinnertime. "What do you want for dinner, Noah?"
"Ravioli!"
Relief! Now this I can do. I open the freezer. Fill a pot with water. Light the burner.
But what's happening over there? Noah's at his toy stove, fiddling with the wooden knobs and knocking a spoon and fork around in a wooden pot. Periodically squatting to have a look through the oven's windowpane.
"What are you doing, bud?"
"Cooking."
"What are you making?"
"Ravioli."
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