So far, my son evinces none of the gustatory passion that my husband and I had hoped he would. His culinary tastes range from Midwestern to solidly middle-of-the-road. I can live with the fact that he doesn't like sushi or tempura or udon or hummous or cottage cheese (even though all his friends do). But the kid won't even set spoon near soup. Sometimes I think, how could I have given birth to someone who doesn't like soup? It practically defines me. The sad truth is that despite the valiant and continual efforts of my husband and I to expand the Little Prince's repertoire, we have made zero headway on the broth front.
But sometimes ideas lie deep and dormant, waiting for the right time to blossom. So it was heartening to discover him playing with his friend Ava one afternoon when we were in Normandy this past summer. They had stolen away to the children's manor house on the grounds of our chateau.
As I not-so-surreptitiously approached, the crunchy gravel amplifying my delicate footsteps into the sounds of a herd of buffalo, they didn't even look up, so intent were they on whipping up their batch of...
...flower soup.
It's a start, right?