But most important is that the kids also seem to have no idea that they are the top one percent of the top one percent. They are really well behaved, and not entitled brats in the least. Sixteen-year-old Robbie is a junior at Northside College Prep, excelling in his classes, and just got moved up to co-captain on the lacrosse team. Darcy is a twelve-year-old eighth grader, in her last year at Catherine Cook elementary school with Ian, who is in fifth grade, and little four-year-old Geneva, who is in junior kindergarten. Darcy is the musician of the family, playing trumpet in the concert band and electric bass with her School of Rock after-school program. Geneva is the dramatic one, and we all joke that she is destined for the stage or screen. She’s a lovable terror, like a tiny little Amy Schumer, who remembers fondly every vulgar or scatological thing that was ever accidentally uttered in her presence. Full of sass and attitude, with a raspy little whiskey-soaked voice like she’s been smoking two packs a day since birth. They are as close to having kids as I am probably ever going to get, considering both my ever-advancing age and my permanent state of single. With the added benefit of not having to put any of them through college.
I watch as Ian pulls the cooked squash out of the oven and drops it on the part of the cooktop that is currently not in use to let it cool for a moment while he mixes honey vinegar and a touch of brown sugar into thick crème fra?che, tasting along the way with the spoons I keep in a little cup on the stovetop. Satisfied with the crema, he turns back to the food processor, where he has chopped the pistachios, shallots, olives, and herbs, and empties out the contents into a bowl, adding a splash of the honey vinegar, a pinch of red pepper flakes, and a healthy glug of olive oil. He tastes, adds salt and a good grinding of black pepper, tastes again, and nods, pleased with himself.
“Ten minutes to go,” I say, checking my phone. “Keep talking me through things.”
Ian reaches for a large flour tortilla and places it in a dry nonstick skillet. “I’m going to assemble the quesadilla now,” he says, sprinkling shredded fontina cheese over the whole surface of the tortilla. He dots the shredded cheese with small bits of fresh goat cheese. “I’m using fontina because it melts well and is mild, and some chèvre for a bit of punch and creaminess. Now the pork.” He has sliced the pork thin, and layers it over the cheeses, following with cubes of the roasted squash. He takes a second tortilla and places it over the whole thing, pressing down so that the cheese, which is already getting melty, will help stick the two halves together. He covers the pan with a lid, then turns to get three plates out of the cabinet. He places a spoonful of the crema on each plate and gives it a very professional smear with the back of the spoon.
“Five minutes,” I say.
He turns back to the stove, removes the lid, and deftly flips the quesadilla over, revealing the well-browned and crispy underside. He presses again with the spatula, hearing the sizzle as a little bit of cheese leaks out the side. He pulls one end of the quesadilla up to check that it is browned underneath and slides it out onto the cutting board.
“I think I’m going to let it rest for a minute,” Ian says.
“Why?”
“So all the cheese doesn’t ooze out. Like resting a piece of meat so you don’t lose the juices?”
“I think that is a good idea, and you still have two minutes to go.”
“Is it time yet?” Geneva says loudly, walking into the kitchen and clambering up into my lap on the bar stool where I’m perched.
“Almost. Give him one more minute,” I say, kissing the top of her curly head.
Ian cuts the quesadilla into six wedges, stacking two attractively on each plate. Then with a saucing spoon, he adds some of his chimichurri over the center of the wedges. He takes the towel that is tucked into the belt of his apron and gently wipes a couple of stray drops of oil from the side of one plate.
“And time,” I say. “Hands up.”
Ian raises his hands, grinning like mad.
“Now we can eat eat eat!!!” Geneva claps excitedly, bouncing in my lap.
“We need one more judge, Gen—”
“DAAAARRRRCCCCYYYY!!!” Geneva yells at the top of her lungs. Jesus, this kid has pipes. I think my ears are bleeding.
“Darcy’s at her trumpet lesson,” Shelby says, coming into the kitchen and kissing Geneva’s cheek. “But something smells amazing in here. Can I be a judge?”
“Absolutely!” Ian says, coming around the island to serve us our plates. Shelby kisses him as well, reaches up to squeeze my shoulder and wink at me, and perches herself next to me on a bar stool. Geneva immediately clambers over to her mom, who receives her with a loud “oof.” I miss the warm weight of her in my lap; she’s a cuddly kid, and I’m her godmother, an honor I was beyond touched to take on when Shelby and Brad asked me. I’m close to all the kids, but Geneva is the only one I’ve known since birth, so I have to admit she’s got an extra-special place in my heart. But this family? Any one of them has first dibs on my kidneys if they need them.
“Chef, can you tell us what we are tasting today?” I ask in my serious Ted Allen impersonation.
“Yes, Chef. Today I have prepared for you a pork and roasted acorn squash quesadilla with fontina and chèvre, served with a pistachio chimichurri and a honey vinegar crema. Please enjoy.”
I take my fork and knife and cut off a tip of the quesadilla, dragging it through the crema, and using my knife to make sure I get some chimichurri on the bite as well. I close my eyes and taste. The tortilla is crisp; the pork surprisingly juicy, despite being a lean cut that was reheated; the acorn squash sweet. The fontina was a good choice. It’s super gooey but has a mild flavor that lets the pork and squash shine. The slightly sweet-and-sour crema works well, as does the bright herbal crunch of the chimichurri. Frankly, if I’d been served this dish in a restaurant, I’d have been pleased.
“Wow, Ian, it’s good!” Geneva says, now sporting a crema mustache, a huge wedge of quesadilla in her hands dripping cheese and chimichurri into her lap. She starts to wiggle and sing. “His name is I-an, he cooks so goo-oo-ood, and he’s my brother, so I get to eat everything . . .”
“It’s delicious, sweetheart. You’re going to have to make more for Daddy later—he would love it!” Shelby says, using her napkin to absentmindedly try to mop up Geneva, who is devouring the snack with continued abandon, humming her little song as she goes, dripping crema on her shirt, her chin slicked with chimichurri. Then, with a sudden crescendo, she drops the rest of her piece on the plate, slides off her mother’s lap, and begins a series of pirouettes around the kitchen.
“Ian, give me your assessment,” I say, pushing my plate in his direction.
He tastes a couple of bites and then looks at me. “It mostly works well.”
“Anything you would change if you did it again?”
Ian chews his lower lip thoughtfully. “I think next time I would leave out the goat cheese?” He seems to be asking me instead of telling me.
“Why?”
“Um, too much stuff?”
“That’s an interesting way of thinking about it. What makes a dish have a taste of having too much stuff?”
“If it all isn’t in balance.” This one he knows.
“So take me through your components, and tell me where the balance would be off.”
“Tortilla, crispy. Pork, savory. Squash, sweet. Fontina, gooey and salty. Chimichurri, peppery and green and bright, with some acid. Crema, tart and creamy and cool. And goat cheese . . .” He trails off.
“What does the goat cheese bring to the party?”
“Well, it’s creamy, but the crema gives enough creaminess. So the goat cheese fights with it a little bit, overwhelms it, sort of makes the flavor . . . blurry?”
He’s such a badass. “That’s a good word for it, Ian. Anything else?”
He takes another bite. “I’d probably do the crema like the chimichurri, just a last-minute drizzle on top instead of underneath with the schmear . . . it’s making the underside of the tortilla lose its crisp.”