Tonight the kiddo helped with dinner. And by helped, I actually mean helped. Cutting of vegetables was involved. And cubing of watermelon. And stirring things in hot skillets. And setting the table. And…

And during dinner prep we were required to play that we were chefs. And that required chef names. She was Chef Elaina. 19 ¬†years old, recently arrived from Scotland. She’d been dreaming of being a chef since she was 3.5 years old. Her mother had recently died. How did she die? She was having something to drink and set her drink down, and accidentally picked up the glass of poison that was by her drink. And that was that, at least as far as her mother was concerned.

But… she assured me her mother was a very mean mother and fortunately she had a very nice papa. “A very nice, papa, how lucky for you,” I respond, to which she responds, “Did I say papa, I meant dada.” Gold star for this kid.

Anyway, Scotland was very foggy and gray so she assured me that she was adjusting to San Francisco just fine. And nope, there were no problems with the police, her mother was very mean and of course she was very good friends with the police.

There’s more to this very elaborate story. Really we didn’t chat only about imaginary matricide while prepping fajitas. It was much more a conversation about Scotland. And her dreams of being a chef. And her (made-up-imaginary-for-this-story) best friend, who had a name that started with M, was vaguely asian sounding, and I can’t recall for the life of me.

And that’s how we rolled at dinner this evening. It was pretty awesome.