It’s a dish I’ve prepared countless times and one that’s usually met with approval: Linguine Vongole. I used to lie to the kids and tell them the clams in it were chicken, but now they don’t eat meat so this time I have to come clean. “What are these, mom?” asks Georgia. “Clams,” I answer in as neutral a tone as I can find. “Oh,” she says, as if this is no big news, nothing troubling.
Some minutes in, Oliver, Craig, and I are nearly done our meals. Georgia, not so much. Fervent twisting of linguine on fork, but shoot, that linguine just keeps falling off. Better try again. It’s so slippery, holy moly. We urge her to stop fiddling. She begins to cry. Not for herself, but for me. “I just feel so bad for you!” she sobs. “I just can’t!” And she runs from the table. She knows how much I love to cook, how much I love it when she and O love what I cook, and she is afraid that I am horribly wounded.
This time, because I knew the clams would be a stretch, there is lentil soup as a backup. My lentil soup. Not our favourite store-bought Amy’s, which contains some secret ingredient that I, too, am addicted to. G recovers herself and sits down again in her chair. She stares down at the meal in front of her, and fairly immediately the neon thought bubble begins to flash over her head: “Not Amy’s Lentil Soup. Not Amy’s! Mom’s! Aargh! Nooooo!!” She cries, and this time not for me. The next, and only, two bites are tortuous. Life is quite difficult at this moment.
Later, as we all watch Blue Planet, I admit that I didn’t think the Vongole was all that hot this time. Craig and O protest, but a great, beaming smile lights up Georgia’s face. “You didn’t like it, mom?” “Not that much. The clams weren't great.” “Me neither!” Such relief; she is not a big meanie, and I have survived. Now we can relax and truly appreciate the giant squid eating each other, and the sharks with terrible rolling eyeballs ravaging a whale that has fallen to the bottom of the ocean. All is well.
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