One afternoon he brewed a large pot of oxtail soup.
“Is it seriously the tails of cattle?” I ask, hoping against hope that it’s just a figure of speech, when I know the answer already. He rolls his eyes.
Later when he’s washing potatoes, I ask him to cook a few extra. I plan to make crustless quiche the next day and can throw in some spuds.
Come suppertime, I realize that aside from boiling a few potatoes for my recipe, he’s thrown the rest into his soup. There isn’t a separate pot of them for supper.
“Hmmm, what’m I gonna have… ” I mused.
“Soup!” he said.
“Uh, no. Thanks but no.”
He thinks I’m joking. Then he thinks I’m being silly. Then when he realizes I’m absolutely serious, he thinks I’m being ridiculous.
“Think of it this way,” I said. “What if I cook up a nice chicken-foot soup. How would that be? Would you like to eat that?”
He got it then.
He and Emil ate the oxtail soup and pronounced it delicious, and I’m sure it was.
I had noodle curry.
Photo taken this summer when we had zucchini coming out our ears and I was including it in meals every day