This may be old news, but I was at the Columbia City Farmers Market today, and Columbia City Bakery’s famed Walnut Levain loaf is now available in individual size in the form of the Walnut Ficelle. It’s more demi-baguette than ficelle, really. Not that I am complaining.
Laurie and Iris are in Portland, so I’m having the walnut loaf, a couple of scrambled eggs, and some Rainier cherries for dinner.
Iris and I were doing a restaurant story starring Sheep. I portrayed Cow.
> **Cow:** What’s this restaurant called?
> **Sheep:** Sheep’s Own Restaurant. What would you like?
> **Cow:** What do you have?
> **Sheep:** You have to tell me.
> **Cow:** Can’t you tell me what’s on the menu?
> **Sheep:** I can’t, I’m being controlled by Iris, and she doesn’t know *anything.*
I’m pleased to report that I am now part of the [Serious Eats](http://www.seriouseats.com/) family, whose patriarch is New York food writer Ed Levine. Other members of the clan include pizza expert Adam Kuban of [Slice](http://slice.seriouseats.com/); Adam Roberts, the [Amateur Gourmet](http://www.amateurgourmet.com/); and other people not named Adam.
I’ll be writing for S.E. every other Monday on the topic of kids and food (no way!). My first post is:
> OK, I had a bag of the stuff on top of the fridge, but we’re past the stage where my three-year-old, Iris, would request Booty and a cup of warm milk every afternoon for a snack. And adults don’t eat that sort of thing. Maybe seven or 12 pieces here and there while preparing Iris’s snack. That’s it.
Today in the Seattle Times:
> If I were an Olympic judge, I’d give the August farm-stand tomatillos a 10. But here’s the trick: I’ve picked up tomatillos at the supermarket in April, and I’d have to give them at least a 7.
The article doesn’t mention this, but there are other reasons I’d be a great Olympic judge. Like, during the figure skating, I’d be yelling out things like, “That flippy thing was great! I give it a ten!” And the Russian judge would be elbowing me and saying the scoring only went up to six, and I’d be all, “Cram it, Helga! Where I come from, if you flip your junk around like that, you get a ten.”
Today’s recipe, I notice, looks really long and complicated. I assure you it’s easy and worth making over and over.
The purest joy in life, I’ve often said, is getting a package. Who is more loved than the UPS guy? We moved out of our old UPS guy’s zone three years ago, and he still greets me by name whenever I see him. When we were expecting Iris, I basically treated her like a package, something we preordered well before its release date. “Is my little buddy coming out today?” I would ask Laurie, in the same I ask, “Any packages for me?” when I’m expecting something from Amazon.
The flip side of this, of course, is the depression that results from many consecutive days of junk mail. Around here, junk mail is defined as anything other than paychecks, packages, cards, or magazines. We had not received any of these things since last Tuesday. I was starting to flinch as I opened the mailbox.
Then, today, there was a package from Penzeys spices. I had ordered some new chili powder. I didn’t think there would ever be a time in my life when I’d be thrilled to get a package of mild chili powder, but I told Iris, “This chili powder is not spicy!” She and Laurie opened the box. Iris has package fever, just like me. She tasted the chili powder and pronounced it good. Enchiladas tomorrow! And maybe a paycheck or an issue of Saveur? Please?