October 05, 2015
(In which I once again use my blog to basically republish shit I already put on Instagram.)
(THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE BLOGS, AMY.)
On Friday, like something out of a goddamn Disney movie, the winds abruptly changed and the temperature plunged and Jason found a pile of Duraflame logs in the garage.
Combined with the sad uncovered pile of wet firewood from the side of the house, we officially had our first fire in the fireplace.
Ezra was transfixed, then inspired.
He dragged our little table and chairs up from the basement, and added a blanket for a tablecloth.
"I wish we could eat our dinner here," he sighed, like, I'm not even going to ask, because my delicate little heart can't handle hearing you say no.
"I am totally okay with that," I told him, briefly dipping into Fun Mom territory before veering back into Endless Horrible Nag mode, "just don't spill anything or touch the fireplace and youguysbetteractuallyeatandnofighting."
He set out the Fancy Plates (a vintage Serva-Snack set I bought off Etsy for this very purpose but never remember to use nearly enough, as it completely delights them every time it makes an appearance) and carrrrrrefully filled everybody's teacup with water. Real, non-plastic utensils were distributed. Then he added a candle, which I agreed to light with the required nag caveat that nobodytouchthecandle or lightyourselfonfire or sohelpmeIwillgroundyouforamonth.
"It's like our very own tiny fancy restaurant!" he kept exclaiming, running around in circles. "I can't believe I finally have my own restaurant! Noah Noah Noah Ike Ike Ike come sit down in my restaurant!"
Dinner was catfish with dirty rice and it was very well received by all dining patrons.
(They bussed their own dishes, but were still lousy tippers. Also Ike dropped a real, non-plastic, family heirloom baby spoon into the garbage disposal.)
The next day, Ezra decided that the restaurant needed more of a casual bistro/cafe vibe, and swapped the candle for a flower arrangement. "Just for lunch," he said. " because lunch is not fancy."
(Guess I need to step up my grilled cheese game.)
(And get him a proper tablecloth, because that blanket is covered in pet hair and now crusty ground-in bits of dirty rice.)
"Can you BELIEVE we finally have our own cafe?," he keeps randomly asking, his face rapt with joy and wonder, because there's a table with a blanket on it in the family room, and it is the greatest thing in the world, his proudest achievement.
"I CAN believe it," I reply. "I never doubted you, Chef Zah."