The Motherhood Chronicles

 Bitter Green Things In a tiny restaurant on the Upper West Side, around six years ago, your father and I agreed we would start a life together, and then proceeded to make a series of decisions that ultimately culminated in you. It was a tapas bar. I remember that it was winter and that my coat was not warm enough and that when we opened the door to this tiny place warm fragrant air spilled onto the pavement.   The windows glowed with candle light. I remember the round golden discs of potato in the patatas bravas, and the goat cheese croquettes drizzled with honey and the carafe of sangria with a slice of blood orange in it. I remember these details more than the specific conversation that your father and I had. I do know that by the end of this meal, I had made the decision to move continents. You should know that I am heavy handed when it comes to ordering and cooking. I like my tables groaning with food. Nothing distresses me more than hungry people and too few ap...