She feels better, I think.
After 8 days of fever and couch-laying and moaning Zoe seemed almost herself tonight.
I wanted to be gentle on her stomach so I baked potatoes for dinner.
I made the first potato for her, peeling it and smashing it and butter-salt-stirring it just right in a shallow wide red bowl.
She ate it happily and neatly, and then got up to prepare herself a second potato.
She tried smashing her potato with a spoon, which just won't work.
She doesn't ask for help, but I can't help myself.
Standing next to her I notice (and then try to forget) that she is almost as tall as I am, and any minute any breath she will tower over me.
"You need a fork for smashing the potatoes just right.... and then you need to get a thin thin thin slick of butter so it melts quickly and after that you add two shakes of salt and....."
My daughter interrupts me to proclaim, "This is wonderful! This is art! You are a potato artist!; You should have your own cooking show on HGTV! Potatoes Past the Hour with Melissa... or Cooking with the Potato Dr... or...." she stops and thinks of something else, and I interrupt her for a reality intervention.
"I will not cook on TV, never never never, not on your life," I snap (gently?) but she ignores my protest and gets her brother to join her on a tangent inventing catchy potato show titles.
It seems like she feels better, like she conquered the virus and she's back.
