Tonight, the preschooler had his first hamburger the way nature intended. Not broken up into little pieces in their own little quadrant of the plate, but on a bun. With ketchup. A mother has never been more proud. It means his American citizenship has been cemented, not unlike one’s intestinal walls upon encountering such a gigantic wad of beef. No matter. You get used to it.
FYI: Cookbook Friday will be more like Cookbook Sunday this week. I’m pooped.