Anna likes to cook. She calls herself Little Chef and is a whiz at whipping up spaghetti (as in the picture), other kinds of pasta, cupcakes, and gravy. She even invented her own drink - a warm sugar infused strawberry confection that she makes for special occasions.
Of course, I encourage all of this. With all the kids, not just Anna - although she has the most interest right now.
Shouldn't we be starting dinner, she'll ask. I'll get my cook book.
That was how I discovered where my Joy of Cooking had gone - Anna had put it in on her reading shelf.
She'll sit at the kitchen table, leafing through recipes.
She convinces her brother and sister to try things I'd never expect them to agree to.
She makes recommendations to her siblings based on a secret ratio of randomness, uniqueness, and how cool the name sounds, and then they write down the key ingredients on my grocery list.
We had roast duck one weekend.
Lamb curry another.
But much as I admire her willingness to try new things, the line must be drawn somewhere.
Let's have Osso Bucca, she called out yesterday, her finger resting on the appropriate page of the Joy.
Um, sorry honey, we don't have any marrow bones.
She looks pensive. Okay then, let's have...
There is a pause. I imagine her filing through a list of incredible recipe ideas in her head.
Hot dogs! she proclaims with joy.
Hot dogs we can do.