Brunch olio

Yesterday, we decided to go to that local icon, the Space Needle, for Sunday brunch. We were ostensibly celebrating Darling Husband’s birthday, but were also catching up on Little One’s choice of birthday restaurants (the calendar was too full around his real birthday). Their brunch was three courses: only one of us was able to finish all that was put before them and we came home with two boxes, one of space noodles in red sauce and other with one of two eggs Benedict. You simply can’t save apple-pear cobbler with vanilla ice cream for later, or there would have been a third box.

Little One came home and got busy in his kitchen, concocting his own Orbiter, the Space Needle specialty of ice cream served in a bowl over dry ice and topped with a sparkler candle. It’s showy and fun, and it’s parent payoff to see the delight in Little One’s eyes when he realizes it’s for him. His home version is a wooden ice cream cone tucked in a bowl of marbles, served with a loud flourish to any stuffed animal who unwittingly orders it on their waiter’s advice.

Unsurprisingly, no one was terribly hungry that evening—except for teenaged Number One, who had worked up an appetite playing a cello recital. I dug in the fridge for some treasures from this week’s farmer’s market: a pot of rillettes, a local ripened cheese, a baguette and a bowl of greens. I set about mixing a quick vinaigrette for the greens, and Darling Husband disappeared downstairs to find a suitable bottle.

He returned with a bottle of mystery wine. Many years ago, when we first arrived in this country, we tucked our tiny but treasured wine collection in the crawl space. Our resident rodents, clearly of excellent taste, did their best to get into the bottles, chewing through the lead foil (no, it didn’t kill them) and scratching and soiling the labels in the process. We had no choice but to wash the bottles, removing the last hint of their provenance. We know only that they are French and getting long in the tooth. We popped the cork, and tasted a flinty white, probably a Sancerre, past its prime, but still fine with food.

The festivities continued into the morning, as Little One plastered the hallway with elaborate diagrams leading to his restaurant, which had expanded into providing overnight boarding (hey, we had to get him to bed somehow). The only way I could get him to the breakfast table was to announce that our special St. Patrick’s day brunch was served: leftover waffles, garnished with green whipped cream and green pears, served with bacon (Mommy knows protein will be needed to get the boys through the morning).

As we cuddled up to discuss my imminent employ in his restaurant (apparently, if you want to stay more than 10 days, you have to work there) and plan our evening menu, we heard the telltale clinking of the cat’s tags on the breakfast dishes. Her quarry was the paper towel used to blot the breakfast bacon. She had dragged it across the kitchen and seemed surprised that we weren’t pleased with her menu selection. High in fiber, yes, but not up to the high standards in Little One’s restaurant.