Taken from the March 10, 2009 online edition of The New York Times.
“Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!”
Luc Montague’s early morning dreams quickly deflated to the squeaky punctures of his children’s chanting. Matthew—age four—pounded his small fists on the bed, just shy of his father’s face.
“Spam! Spam! Daddy! Daddy! SPAM!”
“And eggs too for meeee!” Two-year-old Carolynne shrieked in excitement, springing from her little feet to climb into bed, but she was too small.
Luc’s groggy eyes smiled.
“Get up here, little bug,” he said, and he pulled Carolynne from her under arms. Matthew was already jumping on the mattress and belly-flopping onto a pile of blankets near the bed’s edge.
Carolynne nuzzled into her dad's neck, where it was warm. “Spam please daddy,” she said sweetly, blonde curls escaping from two little pigtails on the side of her head.
Luc laughed. He was the executive chef at Le Petit Rubis, the premier French restaurant in Portland, Oregon that still garnered rave reviews, even ten years after its opening. His creative cooking methods and creations were featured in food magazines across the country, and he’d recently opened a bakery around the corner from their apartment, which his wife operated with great success. Luc, Carlynne and Matthew could stumble out to daylight in pajamas, walk half a block and pick up fresh croissants, eggs benedict and French toast. But no. His little bugs—the flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood and heirs to his culinary throne—demanded meat from a can. Matthew saw it at the grocery store one day and asked Luc to buy it. He did because he thought it would make his children appreciate the freshness of his food. He was mistaken.
“You bugs are kooky,” he said, and swung his feet to the floor. He grabbed Carolynne and Matthew, one under each arm, Superman-style.
He looked at one, then the other with eyes wide. "Ready?" he asked, and took a deep breath. The kids smiled. "Ready!"
“Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!” they chanted in unison, and to the kitchen they went.
Luc Montague’s early morning dreams quickly deflated to the squeaky punctures of his children’s chanting. Matthew—age four—pounded his small fists on the bed, just shy of his father’s face.
“Spam! Spam! Daddy! Daddy! SPAM!”
“And eggs too for meeee!” Two-year-old Carolynne shrieked in excitement, springing from her little feet to climb into bed, but she was too small.
Luc’s groggy eyes smiled.
“Get up here, little bug,” he said, and he pulled Carolynne from her under arms. Matthew was already jumping on the mattress and belly-flopping onto a pile of blankets near the bed’s edge.
Carolynne nuzzled into her dad's neck, where it was warm. “Spam please daddy,” she said sweetly, blonde curls escaping from two little pigtails on the side of her head.
Luc laughed. He was the executive chef at Le Petit Rubis, the premier French restaurant in Portland, Oregon that still garnered rave reviews, even ten years after its opening. His creative cooking methods and creations were featured in food magazines across the country, and he’d recently opened a bakery around the corner from their apartment, which his wife operated with great success. Luc, Carlynne and Matthew could stumble out to daylight in pajamas, walk half a block and pick up fresh croissants, eggs benedict and French toast. But no. His little bugs—the flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood and heirs to his culinary throne—demanded meat from a can. Matthew saw it at the grocery store one day and asked Luc to buy it. He did because he thought it would make his children appreciate the freshness of his food. He was mistaken.
“You bugs are kooky,” he said, and swung his feet to the floor. He grabbed Carolynne and Matthew, one under each arm, Superman-style.
He looked at one, then the other with eyes wide. "Ready?" he asked, and took a deep breath. The kids smiled. "Ready!"
“Spam! Spam! Spam! Spam!” they chanted in unison, and to the kitchen they went.
