Act 3, Scene 16: “Stop and Smell the Flowers”

And stop and pick up a rock.

And stop and watch an ant.

And stop and scoop up pebbles.

And stop and tug at a blade of grass.

TRL takes a walk with C and E before dinner. A nice saunter down the block. C and E insist on holding TRL’s hands, and the entire unit moves at a reasonable pace. TRL is loving it. A nice walk outside with his boys. Maybe the boys have finally gotten to an age where TRL can share some of his pleasures with them. Maybe this marks the beginning of the Father-Son(s) thing.

But then the boys decide that they don’t want to hold dad’s hands.

OK, no problem.

They get to the end of the block and turn around. Let’s go home for dinner, announces TRL.

Dinner, repeat the boys.

And then E becomes enchanted with his shadow, the falling early summer sun stretching his body image along the sidewalk.

Shadow!

Yes, shadow, says TRL.

Shadow!

Yes.

And C sits down and begins scratching at the edges of the sidewalk at the grass line for really good pebbles.

Guys, mommy is coming home, and it’s dinner time, TRL announces. Guys, come on, please get up. Walk.

And they do. A whole five feet before a dandelion captivates them.

And then a bird sitting on a front lawn.

Guys, either you walk or I carry you.

No carry, walk, E responds.

Then walk, says TRL.

Another five feet. And another fascinating must-see event unfolding before them. The sharp needles on a pine tree. A smushed bug on a tree stump. Another rock.

TRL’s predinner constitutional has turned into The Never Ending Journey. And he has gone from happy-go-lucky dad sharing a special time with his sons to a drill sergeant barking instructions every 20 seconds: Walk. Walk.

After another ten minutes and 20 feet, TRL can see their house.

Look guys, home.

C and E’s house, they respond in unison.

Mom will be home soon, and it’s dinner time, says TRL. Come on guys, let’s go.

But like the mathematical construct of choosing two points along a line, and by continually halving the distance between them, you never actually arrive at the farther point, home gets closer but to TRL it seems they will never actually arrive.

Act 3, Scene 15: “Chef School”

TRL has always been a good cook. He remembers proudly making a crepe for his mom a few days after learning the craft in seventh grade home economics class. He loves taking an hour to extra-virgin-olive-oil sauté garlic and begin his base of homemade tomato sauce, layering on the anchovy paste, canned plum tomatoes, canned chopped tomatoes, fresh tomatoes, Italian parsley, and miscellaneous other ingredients, and then stir occasionally over a three-hour period as it reduces. Or make elaborately flavored chicken dishes out of simple ingredients like chicken breast, white wine, balsamic vinegar, and spices. Or pan frying steaks. Or making elaborate fresh salads. He loves food porn: TRL dreams of a Viking stove, Sub-Zero refrigerator, long marble container tops and built in cutting boards.

He has the ingredients and cooking and intuition parts down, and also the most important part: the pride of making and serving food to people he cares about. He has come to understand why his grandma fluttered between the kitchen and the table during family gatherings, cooking and serving but rarely sitting: you are the cook, you are in the zone, people are hungry and food must be prepared. But TRL never really got the timing down. People would wait for the first course, or wait too long between courses. TRL romanticizes going to cooking school to learn how to be a pro. And he and S did take various cooking classes in the hills of Chianti, Oaxaca, Mexico, and New York City. But TRL still hadn’t worked out the timing issues. Until recently, when he unwittingly enrolled in the toughest restaurant school there is: Le Cordon Twins.

When C and E are hungry, they want their food. Not in ten minutes, or two minutes, or even thirty seconds. Because C and E have no concept of time. They know only NOW. And that is when they want food on their plates. And if they don’t get it NOW, you can not send a drink out to placate them, or offer them a free dessert, or send apologies from the chef. Because They Don’t Care. They Want Their Food NOW.

They won’t smear you in a restaurant review. Or tell their friends not to go to you for dinner. Or refuse to pay the check. Worse. Much worse. They will whine. For maybe 20 seconds. And then they will scream, shout and cry. Les enfants terribles d’cuisine.

Which will raise TRL’s blood pressure as he scrambles to get dinner ready.

And piss S off, who is hungry after a long day at work. She will make some unwelcome comment. Which will further raise TRL’s blood pressure.

Focus, steam, grill, plate, TRL repeats to himself.

But the screaming continues. And the temperature rises. And no matter how good the food is, if it is delayed, it is worth nothing.

After several months of this, TRL feels something happening. His movements between sink and cutting board and stove became more fluid. He learns to cut the number of steps in a preparation and remove unnecessary equipment from the process. He values preparation: getting everything cut, chopped, diced and measured ahead of time. He coordinates the pasta boiling and the sauce making, the steak grilling and the asparagus blanching. He understands timing. Forced by a pair of screaming two-and-a-half-year olds, the world’s harshest critics of food service, TRL finally graduates from cook to chef.

Act 3, Scene 14: “For Whom the Bell Tolls”

It tolls for TRL. That sweet, sweet jingle-jingle-jingle announcing the ice cream truck is here. The boys are too small, and S and TRL don't encourage them eating ice cream anyway (that's what the grandparents are for). But the excitement of the music, a sing-song tinkling breaking into TRL's consciousness as he labors away at the computer upstairs, is a real treat. TRL's ears perk up and his heart accelerates, priming his body for the run to the truck even before TRL is fully aware of the truck. It is a vestigial response from his youth.

Out of the corner of his eye through the window he sees the Insane Clown Posse Truck slowly winding its way towards him. He runs to the front window and reads "Juniper Farms" on the side of the white truck, just above the window where the treats are dispensed. Red, white and blue rocket pops, eclairs stuffed with a chocolate bar, Italian ices, creamsicles, they are all there, and more. But TRL, petting his stomach, knows he cannot chase this dream, not right now, anyway. He would look ridiculous chasing the truck, a grown man in sweat shorts and cheap clogs tearing across the lawn and barreling down the sidewalk in an attempt to flag down the ice cream man. The neighbors would be disturbed. But just to have it reappear in his life is something unexpected and refreshing.

Act 3, Scene 13: “Drive Through”

S’s friend Ami just had a little baby girl, and S, mindful of all the help TRL and S got from friends after they took C&E home from the hospital, told Ami they would be delivering dinner to her, her husband, mother, and their 2-year old daughter. In San Francisco, TRL and S initially had their families helping them as they adjusted to life with two tiny howling bundles of children. But the families soon left back for the East Coast, and that is when the friends stepped in, organizing different days when different friends would deliver food to the house. They wouldn’t stay long, just a hi, some words of encouragement, and the meal. After TRL and S had been up for hours and hours performing all the duties of new parenthood – the diapers and feeding and bathing and holding and rocking and soothing and cleaning up, with little or no time for their own feeding or showering or sleeping – these meals from friends were emotional life savers. So S, being S, wanted to do the same for her friends.

Let’s just go to Trader Joe’s and pick something up, suggests TRL, because they needed to go to Trader Joe’s anyway to do their own shopping.

Pick something up, like a frozen pizza or something, S responds acidly. Come on. That’s not dinner. I’ll call Bertucci’s.

Thirty minutes later, TRL pulls the Volvo wagon into Bertucci’s, an upscalish Italian chain.

They said to park in the marked spots, says S, as she points TRL into a parking spot marked “For Pick-up Only.”

They said they’ll come out to us, she adds.

TRL puts the car in park and immediately puts his hand above the horn, ready to pounce.

No, says S. They said they will be able to see us.

Yeah, right, says TRL, his hand perched over the horn, itching to press into it. But 10 seconds later a smiling teenager in a black waiter outfit comes outside and walks up to the car. TRL rolls down the window.

Order for S?

Yes, says TRL, shocked at the apparent efficiency.

The teenager smiles again and hands over a check. S offers a credit card and the waiter goes back inside.

See, says S.

Hmmm, mutters TRL, thrilled but also still cynical. He slides down in the seat, getting ready to enjoy the down time waiting for the food to come out. The boys in the back are quiet, and the sun is out. But almost immediately the waiter comes out again holding two bags and that smile. TRL sits up.

Ahhh, we should put it in the back, TRL says as the waiter comes to the car. S prepares to hop out but stops at the waiter’s insistence. He then pops open the rear door and slides in the food. He comes around to the front and through the open window hands in the credit card and check. S signs, the waiter smiles and walks back inside, and then stillness. In two minutes, the entire transaction has been completed. And TRL didn’t have to leave his seat. He wonders if for a further service charge the restaurant might chew the food for them as well as drop it down their throats. This was the car hop in the 21st century. Brutally efficient, one didn’t have to leave the comfort of one’s car or have any social or physical interaction with the world beyond the environmentally-controlled auto bubble. TRL had already decided to come back on his own to order dinner. Maybe he would bring a portable DVD player and he could have a little drive-in experience. He wondered if the management might get pissy if he sat in the “For Pick-up Only” parking spot for two hours.

Act 3, Scene 12: “End of Innocence”

How do we know we like something unless we try it? The only way to judge if something works is to try it yourself. Chefs know this as they experiment with the ratios and ingredients of a new dish, artists understand this as they try different mediums and style in pursuit of something they can call their own, and E knows this. In fact, perhaps E knows this better than anyone. He is willing to sample everything life offers because he has no preconceptions of what things he should and should not like, or even what maybe he should take on faith as not working. With experience comes the ability to guess at wrong combinations. Any chef worth his salt would instinctively understand that putting a big scoop of chopped liver on top of vanilla ice cream is a no-no. And even the most brash experimentalist who might just try this out of curiosity would forgo a fish sauce to top it off. With a loss of innocence – the unmitigated enthusiasm to try literally anything – comes also the wisdom to avoid mistakes as well as the knowledge to focus on potentially successful ideas. You leave the Garden of Eden, but at least you have learned to avoid snakes.

E lost his innocence. And it is TRL’s fault.

E lies on the changing pad, feet in the air, his monumentally messy poo in the process of being cleaned up. TRL tosses a wipe in the garbage bag when he sees E do a fast swipe of his hand into his bottom. And just as fast the hand enters the mouth. Things then move in slow motion for TRL. He sees the little hand with the brown smudge perched at the entrance to the open mouth. And he screams “Nooo” while lunging for the hand. TRL grabs it and extracts it before the brown makes contact with the soft pink insides. E stares at TRL, wide-eyed and confused and scared. The pause, and then E starts crying, tears pouring down his cheeks.

It’s OK, says TRL, but you can’t eat your poo. It’s not good for you.

He then whisks E to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly with soap and water, and for good measure flushes his mouth with water.

You didn’t need to wash him down so forcefully, exclaims S after watching and then hearing what happened. He didn’t get any in his mouth. He was just trying something new.

Generally speaking, eating poo is bad, says TRL. Feces is bad for you. E coli.

But he would have learned this on his on, retorts S.

TRL shakes with disgust. He answers: It was a visceral reaction to watching him scoop his ass and about to chomp down on his poo. I never ate my crap, he adds, making a mental note never to ask his parents if this was true.