Last night we pulled together dinner from various things we had around the house, trying to use some things up and make something quick. We picked some lettuce, chard, and nasturtium leaves from our garden, and I used a leftover chicken breast to make myself a chicken caesar salad. Brent made a salad using some leftover roasted beets and fennel. We made grilled cheese for the girls which we served with fruit. And we thawed the last of a loaf of Ciabatta that I’d frozen and made grilled garlic bread which we slathered with mango chutney. All very satisfying for dinner on the fly.
We had six pieces of ciabatta, 3 each for Brent and me. I was biting into my second piece when I noticed Brent eyeing the last piece. Not one to part with yummy food that was by rights mine, I said, “Hey, this is only my second piece.” “This was my second piece he said polishing off the last bit of the piece in his hand,” he responded.
Me: I thought there were 6 pieces.
B: There were.
We both looked at the plate again. I counted again in my head. Then I turned to look at M. She was taking a bit of piece number 6 and smiling broadly. We all started to laugh so hard we had to stop eating for a bit. Our daughter who normally confines her diet to mac-n-cheese and peanut butter sandwiches, was happily munching her confiscated piece of “grown-up bread”. You could just seeing her beaming with pride that she’d confounded us so easily.
