“That’s a good catch. What is our rule about presentation?”
He grins and recites it like a catechism. “Presentation is important, but our mouth better be the happy one in the end. It needs to taste even better than it looks.”
“Perfect. But, Ian? This is all just nitpicky. This is a spectacular dish, and you should be very proud.”
“Okay, what’d the squirt whip up now?” Robbie says, coming into the kitchen and dropping his backpack on the floor. He leans down to kiss Shelby on the cheek, while snagging a wedge of quesadilla off the plate. “Hey, El,” he says around a huge mouthful.
“Hello, Rob. How was today?”
“Good,” he says, chewing. “Hey, Ian, dude, this is pretty killer. Good job.” He reaches over for a brotherly high five. Ian beams. Shelby and Brad got super lucky with the kids spaced as they are. The two boys and two girls are both far enough apart in age that there is very little rivalry, and both of the older kids are very protective of the younger ones. There is certainly a normal amount of sibling squabbling, but in general they get along pretty well and are hugely supportive of each other. They all have different interests, so there is no competitiveness.
Shelby hands Robbie a napkin as he reaches for the remainder of the piece Geneva has abandoned.
“Hey! You! I’m eating that!” Geneva stands at Robbie’s side like a tiny little dictator, hands on hips, glowering. Robbie reaches down and sweeps his little sister up into his arms and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Is that right, little Miss Bossypants? Looked to me like you were giving a dance recital to the kitchen chairs, and not eating Ian’s delicious snack.” He starts to spin her around a bit, and she squeals in delight.
“I’m telling you right now, Robert, if she pukes down your back you will get no sympathy or help from me,” Shelby says, smiling at her brood and winking at me.
“I’m not gonna puke, Mom!” Geneva says loudly. “Wait, maybe I am . . .”
Robbie stops spinning at once and puts Geneva down quickly.
“Ha! Gotcha!” she says, grabbing the rest of her snack out of Robbie’s hand and returning to the other side of the kitchen, dancing and singing and being generally hilarious. At least to me. I think deep down Geneva is one of those kids who is a hoot when she doesn’t belong to you and you get her in smallish doses. I would imagine that living with her energy full-time would be exhausting and maybe even eventually annoying.
“Eloise, what do you think? Do we have the next Junior SuperChef here?” Shelby asks me, as Ian begins to clean up. It’s part of our rule. When I cook for the family, I clean up. But when we train, he is in charge of keeping his stuff clean and keeping his equipment in good shape. I taught him how to sharpen his knives by hand, how to clean the cast-iron skillet with salt and oil it before putting it away. He takes it all very seriously, which impresses me almost more than his natural cooking talent.
“Forget Junior SuperChef, your house might get a Michelin star before his voice changes.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ian says in a voice an octave lower than his usual tone. Which makes Geneva lower her already basso profundo into an even lower register, making her sound scarily like the little girl in The Exorcist.
“Ian will get three Michelin stars before he has any hair in his pants . . .”
“Geneva!” Shelby says, trying not to laugh. “That is not appropriate.”
“Sorry, Mom. Robbie said it the other night. I don’t know why Ian is going to get hair in his pants, but it sounds gross.” Geneva rolls her eyes at Shelby and dances off.
“Robert Farber.”
“Not my fault. She’s always eavesdropping. I did not say it in front of her on purpose. She’s only gonna get worse, mark my words . . .”
“That is not the point, young man.” Shelby is barely containing her smile.
Robbie shrugs. “I’m going to do homework. What’s for dinner?”
“Thursday night is pasta night,” I say. “I left you guys a lasagna Bolognese, garlic knots, and roasted broccolini. Ian is going to make the Caesar salad table side.” Thursday is the day I come in only to train Ian, so on Wednesdays I always leave something for an easy pasta night. Either a baked dish, or a sauce and parboiled pasta for easy finishing, some prepped salad stuff, and a simple dessert.
“Awesome. Does the lasagna have the chunks of sausage in it?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Robert Adam Farber, would I leave you a lasagna without chunks of sausage in it?” I say with fake insult in my voice.
“No, El, you totally have my back on all things meat. What’s for dessert?”
“Lemon olive oil cake with homemade vanilla bean gelato.”
“Epic. Thanks, El, see you tomorrow. Good job, broseph.” And he grabs his backpack and heads up the back stairs to his bedroom.
“Eloise, you’ve had a long afternoon, I’m sure, and Ian has the kitchen in hand. Why don’t you take off?” Shelby says. “Tell me you have fun plans tonight—let me live vicariously . . .”
“Oh, I have a big night planned. First I’m going to stop by my mom’s and have a quick cocktail hour with her and Aunt Claire, and then I have Marcy stopping by for a bit, and finally some quality time later with Netflix and a cuddly corgi.”
Shelby sighs. “Simca might be the cutest dog on the planet, but she is no substitute for a person . . .” Shelby would love for me to be dating. Any time she meets a single man over six feet tall she tries to fix me up.
“Don’t ever tell Simca she’s not a person—she’ll never forgive you!” I say in mock horror.
Shelby doesn’t seem to get that, for me, alone does not mean lonely, and I’m really genuinely looking forward to the evening ahead. “But since all is good here, I do think I will head out, try and get my visit in before Mom and Claire are schickered.” My mom and Aunt Claire have been best friends since kindergarten, so Claire never got the least bit prickly when Mom started dating Claire’s older brother Louis when they were in high school. Or when she married him six years later.