The argument regarding who is the best cooker has pretty much quieted down. Every once in a while, however, it rears its ugly head. Last Friday, while J was putting the final touches on dinner, I orchestrated the setting of the table.

This is not quite as easy as it sounds. The two guys alternate between desperately wanting to do a job (”No! It’s My Turn to put the napkins out!”) and desperately not wanting to do a job (”But daddy, I don’t want to put the plates on the table!”)

As everything was coming together, I poured the drinks and helped the kids into their seats. After the appropriate compliments about how well the table had been set and how good the food looked, everyone dug in.

“Daddy?” My youngest asked, holding out his juice cup.

“Yes?”

“Did you make this juice?”

I hesitated. In a manner of speaking I did. I mean I poured it from the bottle. In a way that’s making it. “Yep.”

“I love it,” he said. “It’s the best juice ever!”

I glanced at my wife. She was keeping her expression carefully neutral, but I knew what she was thinking. She’d spent the better part of an hour putting the meal together. Me? I had poured the juice.

I thanked the little guy.

“You know what?” He continued, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re the best cooker ever! This juice is the best ever. You’re the best cooker ever!”

It was too much for his mom and older brother. They both erupted into the old arguments of who was the best cooker and who wasn’t. I leaned over to N, poked him gently in the belly, and whispered. “Thanks!”

He giggled.

Hey, juice is important.