At an Italian restaurant last night, while I was picking at my spaghetti bolognese, a perfect little gentleman of around 2 or 3 years old came up to me and stared.
Whatever I did — peekabo, wiggly fingers, wiggly fingers on head, big smile, surprise face — it didn’t matter. He just stared. It was wonderful. And once again I found myself so grateful that I don’t live in Belgium or Austria or one of those other places (Portugal) where they take their children and send them into the forest and don’t let them come back until they’re 25.
You can criticize Americans and say that we watch too much TV or that we put feathers in places we probably shouldn’t (egg dishes), but you have to admit: at least we don’t make our young people live in the forest.
i was going to post on the history of infanticide, but realized that this is another food poem/anecdote, and instead i’m advising that i bought you a one year supply of ‘healthy snack of the day.’
nosh up.