All Hands.

I’ve been getting help in the kitchen lately. Help of the chubby-fingered, tiny-fisted variety.

The kid would like to be more involved than this, even. She’d like to be fully in charge of all things lettuce (except eating it because, she’ll have you know, it’s yucky and no she does NOT need to taste it in order to be certain). I can’t wait to let her handle its washing and drying, too, just as soon as I’m convinced she understands what washing and drying actually entail. Call me snooty, but I prefer my salad without any grit in it.

We’ve been eating salad nightly, coming together at the dinner table for the first time to eat foods prepared by all of our hands. It’s the stuff of my maternal fantasies and, at least for me, it feels just as satisfying as I thought it would.