“I can’t bake for you baby. It’s too hot.”
“That’s all right, Mom. I’ll take chocolate.”
There are no cookies left for Ferdinand’s lunch. I am not allowed to give him chocolate. School rules.
If a boy has two all rye flour crackers, an apple, fresh pineapple, peanuts, raisins and 100% juice boxes,
will 2 Cadbury buttons do him harm.
A rule is a rule.
Somewhere in the mix of my childhood I ate brown sugar from a box and was convinced it sealed my future as an add-on for going straight to Hell.
Chocolate chip cookies have chocolate chips. Totally allowed.
Slipped the buttons in with the peanuts and raisins. If I can make a composed salad, why not a deconstructed granola bar?
I’ll pack some for myself when I pick him up in case they’re waiting for me.
If I make it back home: salad.
Fresh white peaches with French feta and the red lettuce that won’t grow past micro size in my garden. Fresh mint leaves and chive and toasted cubes of baguette, tossed with lemon zest and sea salt.