The big kids have started French lessons. Officially.
In truth the lessons started weeks ago.
They've not been in proper school so we've done everything together. The grocery store is a classroom for all of us. We've learned the names of fruits and vegetables, oohed and aahed over more chocolate cereal than you've ever seen, and been fascinated by the different cuts of meat displayed in the butcher's case and strange seafood ensconced in taut plastic.
The Middlest is the adventurous one. He loves smelly cheese. Blue is his favorite. He loves pâté and selects his choice for the week. This week he chose smooth mushroom with a jelly edge and took delight in grossing his sister out by spreading it, jelly and all, on his baguette.
On Monday I made the mistake of pointing out what I took to be pig brains, plastic wrapped next to the pork chops. He put it in the trolley. I took it out. He held it in his hands like a gift begging, 'Please, please let's buy it. I want to think like a pig!'
Oh, I should have bought it I guess, but I can't begin to imagine how to cook it much less how to stomach cooking it.
So at the French lesson, the Baby happily played on the floor with cars. Lying on his side, watching the wheels go forward and back, forward and back the way boys do.
I looked over at him just as he spotted the cat food sitting in a dish under a kitchen chair, tempting. 'Huh?!', he grunted in his baby voice.
This translates as, 'What is this lovely delicacy? And to what do I owe this pleasure?'
I watched as he sized up the cat food and then took a taste.
Thankfully, he wasn't thrilled by chat kibble and I made it over to him as he spluttered and spat.
He would have gone in for a second taste though, I know it. He's just that kind of guy.
A palate has to be trained; enjoying delicacies can sometimes be hard work.