Table for None

You like lamb chops? I love lamb chops. A rare treat. (And, by the way, Sam's Club has excellent meat. But that's another story.) I made some lamb chops the other night. Saturday, I think it was. Normally I make them with that wine-and-parsley sauce recipe from my 1958 first-edition Gourmet cookbook, and even though the herb garden is overflowing with parsley I decided to simply sear them with salt, pepper and garlic.

I also tried a new cream of smoked mushroom soup I'd prepared for earlier in the week by smoking a pound of mushrooms. Boy, was that divine. And you know how with cream soups they often have you strain out the flavor agents, the mushrooms, leeks, onions, et al.? Well, frugal gourmet that I am I saved all those, mixed in some eggs, breadcrumbs, and cream cheese and made a brilliant smoked mushroom terrine.

The Missus had picked up some fresh asparagus and a bottle of white earlier in the day so the stage was set for a perfect dinner. And it was. The first bite and a half were the equal of anything I've ever put on our table. Then came the grunting. From beside the table, down in the little bouncy chair. The little one, the girl, had a bright red face and a grimace that indicated severe discomfort. I don't have to tell you parents what that means. But, boy, when it takes five or six minutes for them to work it out it really takes the edge off your prime eats. Then the older one, the boy, started in. "She's got POOOOOPIEEEES! POOOOP-IEES!" And, "Don'tlikethis! Don'tlikethis!" And, "Wanttoast! Wanttoast!"

So up for the toaster, swap out the juice for chocolate. When I came back, the Missus was gone, and I heard "Whoooooooooooooo-boy!" from upstairs, followed by, "Can you bring me a plastic bag?" Followed by, "Don'tlikethis! Want JUICE!" When I'd delivered the bag and returned with the juice the boy had wriggled from his booster seat and slipped out the front door and was trotting -- pantsless, somehow -- down the sidewalk toward the street. He got a most peculiar stare from an elderly woman in a Winnebago headed north and a young man on a Harley headed south. (We're on a busy corner.)

When I got the boy's pants on and got us both back to the table the phone rang. It was my sister, who I'm convinced has wired all the dining room chairs with sensors that tell her when we've sat down to eat. We chatting briefly about her former boss's sister's friend's father's pituitary problem before I protested that my dinner was going cold, but when I hung up I noticed the boy was gone. I tracked him to the nursery by following the discarded items of clothing and found him secreted under the crib. The Missus was rocking the girl, who had conked out with an almost-empty bottle nestled in her mouth. "She was sleepy so I thought I might was well put her to bed," she said (the Missus, not the girl, who doesn't say much at all).

I reached under the crib to dislodge the boy but he screamed, "NO! NO! NO!" which I knew would wake up the baby so I backed off and returned downstairs alone. When I turned the corner the cat was standing over my plate with cream soup on her whiskers and lamb chop bone lodged in her mouth. At the site of me she bounded down and disappeared.

I love lamb chops. I really do. But Saturday I had cereal. Tooty Fruities. You know, those Froot Loops knock-offs in the bag. You like cereal?

Tonight we're having lasagna. Dinner at 5:30, at least that's what I've been told. After that, hoops at St. John's. Will you be playing tonight? Please let me know. We tip off at 6:30.