The empty nest didn't seem so empty — just blessedly quiet. After 18 years, we'd forgotten the comforting sounds of silence.

        Of listening to soft jazz during dinner, instead of the ringing phone.

        Of the washing machine and dishwasher at rest instead of droning 24/7.

        And the choice of a dinner entree without the drama of a Shakespearean tragedy.

        And we are cooking again — for ourselves.

        Like many parents, we started off with good intentions — introducing the boys to everything — beets to bananas — and nurturing baby gourmands. Ours would be the children ordering fish instead of hamburgers. Vegetables would be their best friends.

        The rice cereal went well, then apple sauce, Cheerios and raisins.

        We didn't hit the wall until pureed green beans, not that I could blame them. Finger painting with it was much more fun. We newspapered the floor under high chairs at mealtime and braced ourselves.

        They slipped overnight from that ravenous period when you can't spoon the food fast enough to locked lips sealed against any vegetable menace.

        By the time they were 3, they were allowed to throw lima beans — part of the Green Giant's frozen mixed veggies — to the “Lima Bean Monster” who lived beneath the back porch. Not to panic. I hate lima beans, too.

        By the time they were 4, we had a neighbor kid who ate only toaster French toast and applesauce three times a day — and we were serving meals by theme. Some were done by color: The yellow dinner was macaroni and cheese, corn, scrambled eggs; the red dinner was red sauce spaghetti, apple slices and cranberry juice.

        We crafted “Egg Salad Mickey” sandwiches out of a circle of bread with two smaller circles as ears. We had dinosaur muffin tins and used big cookie cutters to serve sandwiches in car and truck shapes decorated with peanuts.

        I made celery stalk “monsters” filled with peanut butter and raisins. They made fruit salad smiley faces and cut their cheese slices into shapes. They were allowed to play with their food with the hope some made it to their mouths.

        By 5, it was a circus — a three-ringer.

        We had breakfast for dinner, Creamsicle orange sherbet and yogurt shakes for breakfast and always ice cream the first and last day of the school year. Lord knows what they bartered their diligently packed and balanced lunches for in the cafeteria.

        But last fall, I shed my guilt over the food pyramid and left it on the dormitory steps. My parting words: “Eat at least one fruit and one vegetable — a week — please?”

        Back home, alone, we began to cook again as a couple — no microwave. Salmon, sometimes three times a week if we felt like it. We bought a whole fish on sale and had it filleted. Catfish. Pork that the kids labeled “too chewy,” stir fry — “too yucky” — with fresh Chinese vegetables. Swiss chard. Sweet peppers. Bruschetta. Spinach came out from hiding in casseroles.

        We grew herbs, put Gorgonzola on romaine, ate lots of onions that used to be quarantined on the side of the plates.

        And sauces. I had forgotten there were sauces beyond the cheese goo squeezed from a pouch.

        The recipe box came out of cold storage and the gourmet cook wannabees out of the closet.

        Nothing is off-limits in our kitchen now, though sometimes we opt for a hunk of sourdough and cheese for dinner.

        And, sometimes if I'm alone, breakfast-for-dinner, but never toaster French toast.

        And never lima beans.

        Joy Kraft covers home, fashion and shopping for the Enquirer. She lives in Madeira with her husband, Bob. Their three sons — Martin, Brian and Bennett — are now eating fast food at Miami University, Ohio University and Northern Kentucky University.
       

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