A few years ago, our daughter befriended a girl who spoke no English. The girl’s father, a Michelin-rated chef from Tuscany, had been recruited to run a high concept Italian restaurant in LA. For the record, at the restaurants I frequent, Michelin means tires, not food.
My daughter’s first language is Spanish, which was similar enough to Italian that the two became fast friends. Despite having similar levels of executive leadership potential (they can be bossy), the girls hit it off and we grew close with her parents, sharing occasional bottles of red wine over leisurely weekend afternoons while the kids played unsupervised.
Yes, over the course of our friendship we were invited to a meal at their apartment, and yes, it was amazing.
During one playdate at our home, my wife placed some leftovers in the microwave to zap up a quick snack. The girls happened to be nearby, and the young Italian child could not look away for the full minute that the microwave worked its magic.
As my wife opened the door to remove the dish from the microwave, the girl inquired, “What kind of computer is that?”
It slowly dawned on us that this girl, having been raised in the household of an Italian chef, had presumably never seen a microwave oven, and none of the adults in her life used one.