Much to the excitement, or maybe the dismay of my parents ( I haven’t yet decided which), Sylvie and I eventually traded in our intercoms and White House dreams for spatulas and fake plastic knives. In simpler terms, we created a cooking show. After carefully surveying the refrigerator and cabinets, we unloaded string cheese, parmesan cheese, milk, bottled water, and spices, balancing them en route to the “television set.” To any outside viewer, our “set” might have more closely resembled a simple wooden table in a breakfast nook, but my sister and I were blinded by the spotlight, and in our eyes, we stood in a lavish kitchen complete with marble counters and top quality stoves. As we spoke loudly and confidently into the video camera, we turned cheese and water mixtures into “Pasta Bolognese” and “Tiramisu.” And like every true chef, we sampled our creations and described them with adjectives such as “really really amazing” or “the best pasta in the whole world.” Or rather Sylvie sampled everything because I dared her to eat the dishes with promises of a quarter. She did it every time.