I hear little peeps from the nest above my office door, which means Mrs. Robin’s eggs have begun hatching. Little One moved the garbage can, exposing a fat juicy worm, and papa Robin swooped in to pick up. Soon they both will be flying themselves ragged, trying to bring in enough tasty morsels to feed their growing brood.
Number One Son and his class are headed off to a high ropes course this coming week, a supposed exercise in adolescent bonding. I found it easier to not read the release form before I signed it, and found myself more concerned about what the kids were going to be fed.
The YMCA camp was kind enough to provide the planned menu to those of us who are eating around allergies, so I touched bases with the other moms and started to take it apart. Mostly, the exercise consisted of scratching off anything clearly containing eggs, wheat, and dairy, and identifying hidden corn for Nose in a Book: scrambled eggs, dinner rolls, pasta, and French toast all get the axe. Based on the fact that they actually serve school cafeteria staples like chicken nuggets and corndogs, I don’t think it’s a reach to assume that they’re not using local, organic produce, so Number One demurs on eating their meat. I don’t blame him: it has been years since I have seen a school menu, and while I recall corndogs, there are foreign dishes such as “French toast and goop” together with “turkey pot roast” that I have trouble picturing at all. I don’t even want to think about “goop,” let alone force my kid to lose his mystery meat virginity before college.
Judging from the comings and goings from the birdhouse in the lilac, it looks like Mr. and Mrs. Junco also have a new brood to feed. I admit a certain amount of admiration for these birds: faced with a choice between six unique birdhouses (old fence boards, repurposed), they opted for the one nestled in the lilac (was it his choice, and he knew her well, or did she put her foot down, and he just said, “yes, dear”?). The scent must be heavenly with the white blossoms dangling just outside their front door.
In the end, we come up with an alternate menu. Our threesome will have German potato salad and deli ham, and I’ll make a fruit crisp that I know has less than five ingredients. The YMCA folks gamely say we can use their fridge. I guess they know that moms feel compelled to feed their brood, with the best we can offer them.
