Most of the meals I make as a parent are distracted and burnt.   Mornings are always a struggle and breakfast tends to get caught in the crossfire of packing lunches, getting dressed and “HURRY, it’s my turn in the bathroom!”  A few weeks ago a pair of sausage patties took the brunt. 

It was clear there wasn’t much worth saving-but in a desperate attempt at a good breakfast-I scraped the charred side down to edible and carved away the black edges to reveal two perfectly shaped hearts.  I threw the salvaged patties on a plate with a banana, sideways like a smile, and added half of an orange for a nose.   My son beamed like his breakfast.

That night during dinner I noticed Hunter was quiet and because he’s never quiet, I asked him, “Is everything ok?” 

He lifted his eyes from the table and grumbled, “You didn’t give me any hearts.” 

Since then meals are a little bit like the inquisition.  Every helping is a heart shaped version of “Find the Panda,” and my ass is on the line unless I serve up valentines.  On the flipside, I have an everyday opportunity to pack love into each bite.

Grandma claimed TLC made everything taste better, I guess she was right.

Hearts are a big deal at our house.  We draw and paint them, collect rocks shaped like them, and now we eat them.