The Empty Soda Can

Tonight, while Anna and I were watching a show, our six-year-old daughter, Leah, came downstairs, obviously slightly distressed. Anna asked her what was up; Leah responded that she had to go to the bathroom—a rather cryptic statement, since there is a perfectly good bathroom, perhaps ten steps from her room, which she uses all the time. Still, we told her that that was fine and encouraged her to use the downstairs bathroom and get back to bed. For whatever reason, Leah then proceeded to enter the kitchen—which, for those who have never been in our kitchen, does indeed feature running water, but does not particularly qualify as a bathroom. We asked her why she was going in there, but she didn’t answer, which of course led us to ask her again. This continued for about thirty seconds. When she finally came back out of the kitchen, Leah again looked slightly confused. And again, we told her to go to the bathroom and head to bead. Her response: to walk right back into the kitchen...

I remember when I was a kid, a new pizza place opened up in our area. It was about half an hour away, but we’d heard it was really good, so we made the trek to try it. It lived up to the hype: their delectable pan pizza was completely different than the same old genuine New York–style pies at all nine Italian- or Italian-American–owned pizza/sub shops in our tiny New Jersey hamlet of 15,000 people. It was also expensive, but it was so delicious that we’d drive up Route 46, every few months, to take advantage of that wonderful place called “Pizza Hut.” A few years later, they opened another store—their second, in my young mind—about 10 minutes from our house. Now it was easier to get there, though our weekly pizza night continued to come from locals like Cosmo Bella or Bachagaloop’s. Still, when the craving came, we’d still head out to Totowa to get a Pizza Hut pizza and a side of cheesy garlic bread. Definitely great stuff. On the other side of the coin were burgers. Sure, we could...