Yesterday’s storm blew in cool fresh air and a Midwest jet carrying Annie, my eldest, back from Colorado. Today is a very good day indeed.

The flight was delayed but not much by today’s standards. Her father picked her up, and by a little before 9 we were all assembled around a pretty table at Il Mito on North Avenue.

Fellow blogger Jean Radtke was there gracing an outdoor table.

We were inside, where the place was blessedly not over-air-conditioned. I actually had to take off my jacket.

The food was lovely, but I have to say they’ve carried portion control a little far. We ordered two appetizers, and two of us had soup, yet we had to fight over the tiny bread basket that carried six precious two-inch-square chunks of good crusty bread—about a small baguette-worth.

It was a pity, as the olive oil and garlic and the juice from the insalata Caprese, tomatoes and basil and mozzarella in good balsamic vinegar, begged to be sopped up.

Andrea Bocelli and an unusual assortment of friends serenaded us in the background. I’m afraid we grew a little loud with laughter over the petite breadbasket, about the size of Mac’s palm.

Or was it pleasure in satisfying our hunger and breaking bread together that made us laugh? Maybe both.

If you go there, and I hope you do, let me know your interpretation of the bas-relief frieze on the wall over our table. On the right, Pan or some other satyr pipes a furious bacchanal. The couple on the far left seem to be enjoying themselves, but we debated about the ones in the middle.

Last night, with all three of my beautiful children under my roof, I slept well again.

Since I actually like my kids, most of the time, luring them home now and then has become the summer challenge. I like to see them for a minute or two during all their developmental stages.

I figured it out a week or so ago when the “posse” made a refueling pitstop.

“My, Ms. McLaughlin, that smells wonderful,” said handsome nice young man #1, who may sound like Eddie Haskell but is genuine and just a well-mannered kid.

“Why thanks, dear.”

“May I ask what you’re making?” asked handsome nice young man #2, who is even more polite.

“I’m boiling water.”

Now, I’m not suggesting that Tosa parents aren’t feeding their children, but when boiling water smells like home cooking, well, you may want to consider firing up the old range now and then, just to make sure it still works.

My kids just got back from a trip to Colorado, so I’ve been needing an extra fix of them.

“Are you coming home for dinner?” I implore over the course of several cell phone messages.

“That depends. What is it?” They are spoiled and cruel. But I have a secret weapon: basil from the farmer’s market.

“Pesto pasta, swiss chard with balsamic vinegar, and fish. The stuff from Sendiks in crushed corn tortillas with lime and chipotle.”

“I’m coming home!”