Twice baked potatoes are on the menu for tonight. No, my friends, this isn’t functionality for dinner. This is the extravagance afforded when the second draft of Mom’s book has been turned in, and there is time for massaging potato skins with oil, baking them at leisure, scooping out and ricing the entrails, beating them into a frenzy with fat, and then returning them to the oven to let each crown of cheddar cheese get gooey.
Nathan is the foodie of the family. Today, when he drops his school bags at the door and asks what’s for dinner, I’ll tell him “twice baked potatoes” and can expect to be emphatically and unapologetically kissed, never mind that he’s eleven and in middle school now. (Yesterday, I had a gigantic hug on the basis of homemade guacamole.)