The Slow-Cooked Sentence

In which a recipe earns a nod of respect, a line cook demands recognition for chopping onion into little tiny squares and a mother is well fed

When the boys pulled out peanut butter and celery and graham crackers and milk and string cheese to stuff their bellies at five o’clock in the evening, I decided to cancel dinner.

“But we’ll be hungry in an hour.”

“No you won’t.”

“But we love potato soup and you said that’s what was for dinner.”

“Then make it yourself.”

Now, I’ll argue that when more than a handful of modifications is made to a recipe the dish is no longer one thing but another entirely. So with a table drumroll, I introduce —

“Hey guys, what do you want to call your soup?”

“Sam’s Soup,” Sam said.

“Brothers’ Soup,” Max said.

“Nah, it’s mainly me,” Sam said.

“I’m more mature than you.”

“In your dreams.”

“I’d call it The Three Twins,” Ivan said.

“Hey mom, who do you think the most mature person is in this room right now?” Max said.

“The one who refills my bowl first.”

Author’s note: It’s the school’s spring break, and I’m alone with my three boys. This is a diary of our adventures.