Ketchup

     Last night, as I spooned piles of whole wheat penne with melted cheese onto Clara's booster-seat tray, it occurred to me, with a swoon in my heart, that I'd forgotten to buy ketchup at the grocery store.  There was about a half teaspoonful left in the bottle, and that was after I'd turned it upside-down and whacked the bottle's bottom several times with my palm.

     To Clara, cheesy noodles without ketchup is like Eggs Benedict without the sauce, chicken cordon bleu without the swiss, Tina Turner without the hair.

     " 'Dup," said Clara, pointing with a dimpled finger to the the northwestern quadrant of her tray, which she usually reserves for ketchup.

     "Comin' right up," I said casually. I ducked behind the refrigerator and gestured wildly at Simon.  At that moment, getting Clara to eat her cheesy noodles without ketchup seemed about as likely as Wilbur suddenly sitting up on his haunches, using an old utility bill to whip up an origami bird with his paws. 

     As usual, Simon presented an un-ruffled front.  

     "Give her options," he said calmly.  "V8.  Pickles."     

     "She wants something to dip the noodles in," I whispered.  Knowing this battle so well I could predict the exact length and tenor of Clara's kvetches when I asked her if she'd like V8 instead of ketchup.

     "Mommy! Ketchup! Peese!" Clara called from her chair.

     "Nevermind, I have an idea," I muttered.  Hiding behind the fridge, I carefully spooned some plain spaghetti sauce from the meal I'd made for Simon and me into the almost-empty ketchup bottle.  (Clara will typically eat what we eat, or at least try some of it before resorting to her old stand-bys of PB & J, scrambled eggs, cheesy noodles, etc. Last night was the exception.  I'd sensed she was so ravenous, she didn't have the patience for spaghetti bolognese.) 

     When I squirted the ketchup/spaghetti sauce onto Clara's tray, she looked at it with disbelief and exasperation.

     "What? It's ketchup!" I said.

     "Mommy! I want 'dup!" she whined, pinning a shred of parsley in the sauce with her finger and smearing it around.  How could she eat cheesy noodles without ketchup? It was simply inconceivable. She began to melt down a little, and I realized she'd reached the point of hunger and exhaustion that precludes all mental flexibility.

     "Run next door to Kami and see if she'll let us borrow some ketchup," I instructed Simon.

     So Simon put on his coat, his hat and his shoes and went next door, returning a few minutes later with a big bottle of ketchup.

     Clara tucked into her meal with aplomb, and Simon sat down to eat his.

     "I love you, Daddy," said Clara a moment later, when a particularly large clump of cheese forced her to take a break and breath.

     "I love you, too," said Simon from his chair at the end of the table, where he sat spinning spaghetti bolognese on his fork.