Picture this: it’s Saturday morning, and our family of four (six if you include the dogs waiting for something to fall) is gathered around the breakfast table. I’m making “breakfast skillets” for everyone, which means that I’m putting breakfast on the table one person at a time. First is Richie: fried potatoes, pancetta bits, baby spinach, and mushrooms, all scrambled together with two eggs. It makes a huge plate of food. Even though he’s only 11 and small for his size, he’ll eat the whole thing. Like Scooter, Richie is big on the inside.
Jillian is next. Spinach and mushrooms are her favorites, so I sauté them with some potatoes and then scramble in an egg and some Monterey jack cheese.
While waiting for his breakfast, my husband has fired up his laptop and is doing the family books. He’s downloaded a week of transactions from our bank’s website, and is categorizing them one by one: groceries, car expense, pet expense, etc. He likes to do it when I’m around because if there’s something he doesn’t recognize, he can just say, “Hey Amy, what’s AmaranthBakery.com?” and I can tell him that’s where I order the gluten-free flatbreads for Richie’s school lunches. Easy.
As I’m leaning over to put his plate on the table, Rich asks me, “What did you buy at Nordstrom this month?”
“Pajamas for the kids,” I answer.
Richie startles and raises his head from his breakfast. “What kids?!?”