Today, Iris and I were playing this game where we fill paper grocery bags with toys and take them to an imaginary destination such as the beach. At one point…

> **Me:** Let’s go to Thailand.

> **Iris:** Here we are Thailand! Iris want to eat some animal cookies and larb.

Our QFC supermarket is pretty good about free samples. Occasionally they’ve done samples of dry-aged steak or flank steak in kalbi marinade, which is pretty tasty. Sometimes the Aidells sausage rep comes in and offers four different kinds of sausage. Clearly I hang around the meat market a lot. Sometimes they have cookie samples, and those are unmanned, so no one glares like they do if you accidentally walk past the steak a third time.

Today I was shopping and heard an exciting announcement over the PA system. “Come to the Starbucks to try a free sample of our new Marble Mocha Macchiato.” I made a beeline for the Starbucks counter.

Now, I try not to be one of those guys, the kind who complain that “biscotti” is plural and technically you are eating a *biscotto.*

When it comes to the macchiato, however, I’m putting on the pedant hat, because the macchiato is worth defending. It’s a perfect drink, a guaranteed smile in a demitasse cup–when it’s made right, at least. Seattle’s top espresso bars–such as Vivace, Zoka, Hines, and Victrola–take special pride in their macchiato.

Here’s how you make one. Pull a double shot of espresso. Add about an ounce and a half of steamed whole milk (an amount equal in volume to the espresso shot), making a design with the milk if you have the skills. Drink within thirty seconds. A shot of espresso topped with foamed milk may also legitimately be called a macchiato, but it’s not my preferred style, because I think the foam just gets lost. There’s no such thing as a large macchiato.

Here’s how you make a Marble Mocha Macchiato. Blend steamed milk with white chocolate. Add a shot of espresso. Top with chocolate syrup. Available in tall, grande, and venti sizes, all of which suck.

Of course, screwing with the word “macchiato” is nothing new for Starbucks, which generally uses the term to mean a latte with caramel syrup. Other chains have copied this usage. Once I went into a Seattle’s Best Coffee and ordered a macchiato. When I realized the barista was putting caramel into my cup, I said, “Sorry, I’d just like a regular macchiato please, not caramel.”

“We don’t really have the stuff here to make a regular macchiato,” she replied.

I don’t believe Starbucks is evil, but sometimes the mermaid carries a pitchfork. Here’s why I tolerate and sometimes even support them. Today in some small American city, a Starbucks is opening. The kids in the neighborhood will start lining up for vanilla lattes and caramel macchiatos. The vast majority of them will be satisfied with their overpriced dessert drinks.

But a couple of kids will try a shot of espresso. It won’t be good, but it will be better than any coffee they’ve had before. They’ll wonder if they could make better espresso at home. They’ll save up an espresso machine and find that they make better coffee than Starbucks on their first try. They’ll visit a site like [CoffeeGeek](http://www.coffeegeek.com/) and learn about latte art. They will make a macchiato, and it will be religious experience. They’ll travel to Italy or Seattle to train with a master like David Schomer or Phuong Tran.

When they get home, they’ll open their own shop in a niche where Starbucks can’t compete. They’ll play loud punk rock and sell FUCK CORPORATE GROUNDS shirts. They’ll serve microbrews alongside the macchiatos. They’ll sell Fair Trade coffee and give away wireless Internet. And above all, they’ll make the kind of drinks that can only be pulled by trained professionals.

It’s not a fantasy. It happens in Seattle all the time. For every indie shop that has been put out of business by Starbucks (and I don’t deny that it happens), there are three others than have come into being, often in neighborhoods that would have been dismissed as too poor or uncool for specialty coffee before Starbucks stepped in and created the market.

It’s easy to cop a holier-than-thou attitude about people dropping $3 on big cups of hot milk, but behind the 20-ounce latte is something beautiful and real. Its name is macchiato.

After dinner, Iris said, as she so often does, “Iris would like one aminal cookie.” She also tends to insist that we have one, too.

I got a tiger. Laurie got a camel. Iris got…well, let’s let her tell you.

> **Iris:** That’s a rhino! Rhino got a bottom. For Iris to eat! [*crunch*]

Incidentally, unless your kid is still toothless, avoid Barbara’s animal cookies. They’re so crumbly that the vast majority of cookies end up broken, and what kid wants to eat a headless monkey?

That’s a rhetorical question.

I was putting away some onions in the root cellar when I found this:

Aren’t sprouted potatoes great? Most foods, when they go bad, either get disgusting or boring. The potato is the only one I can think of that becomes unequivocally cool.

Iris did not agree. Now, Iris is generally not scared of anything. She’ll try to pet a snarling dog. She’ll fling herself down the big slide. She invented a game called “spooking” where I hide in her bedroom in the dark and then jump out and grab her.

But a sprouted potato? Terrifying. I waved it at her and she cowered like I was holding a deadly weapon. Then I showed her it was safe. I patted it. I told her the sprouts were smooth. “Do you want to touch it?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Iris. She inched closer. When she got about five feet away, she retreated into the living room and said, “No.”

So I put the potato on the couch and let the matter drop. Later I saw this:

This is not the first sprouted potato incident around here. I am a serial potato sprouter.

There’s an oft-repeated canard about feeding kids that says you may need to offer a child a new food five or ten or fifteen times before they like it. I’d dismissed this as untestable and, well, a canard, but maybe I was wrong.

As I’ve mentioned, Laurie and I love brussels sprouts, and we always keep a bag on hand in the freezer for a quick vegetable side. Last night I made carnitas (which I’ll write more about another day) and finished off a bag of sprouts–I just halved them, browned them in butter, added a little chicken broth, and braised until tender, about ten minutes.

Whenever I make sprouts, I put a few on Iris’s plate, but I don’t expect her to eat them. Iris likes broccoli, but she sides with most two-year-olds against the majority of other green vegetables, unless you consider Veggie Booty a green vegetable. Perhaps this is an evolutionary imperative, since green vegetables are bitter, and bitter is the flavor of poison. Or maybe Iris has just internalized a cultural bias against vegetables from watching too much Spongebob.

In any case, last night she threw off the shackles and went to town on the sprouts. She ate them with her hands. She speared them with her fork. *She ate more brussels sprouts than tortillas or pork.*

Oops, I’m inadvertently rapping again. But I think an occasion like this demands the dropping of a few rhymes, don’t you?