“Nice things,” our youngest daughter murmurs. Four sets of eyes dart from one face to the next, and with the arch of an eyebrow and a subtle nod, a quorum is convened. Her twin brother looks at his splayed fingers splintered like a small shipwreck in his lap. “I hid the remote and then I let you use it,” he remembers, squinting at her.

We’re seated around a clattering supper table. I’ve decreed that the children should learn to twist spaghetti and clam sauce neatly around their forks, rather than sucking single strands through pursed lips, the last couple inches of sloppy noodle slapping their chins and cheeks like the wet end of a garden hose slapping a spinning hose reel.

They’ve begun comparing the nice things they have done for each other that day. It’s a suppertime ritual I made up in a desperate moment to supplant the ceaseless did-not-did-tos and Balkanized bickering at the supper table.

“Nice things!” our oldest boy demands, addressing his younger sister, who looks back at him haughtily. “Taking out the garbage,” she replies. Three kids shout in unison: “Mom told you to! That doesn’t count!”

That’s true. If Mom asks you to do a nice thing, it doesn’t count.

“It wasn’t my turn to take out the garbage,” she smirks at her older brother. “It was your turn.” There’s a moment’s silence. She accuses him: “You don’t have one.”

“I do too,” he retorts, hotly. Pointing to his younger brother, “I added up his allowance for him.” His brother sputters, red-faced, “No, you didn’t! You tried to take my allowance!”

His older brother adopts a weary tone, as if addressing a half-wit, “No, it’s my allowance.” A pause. “And you still owe me $150.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket like an electric shock. Pulling it out clumsily, I see that I’m being paged. Supper-table sounds ebb as I slip into work as if slipping underwater, tapping out a reply on a tiny on-screen keyboard.

My wife Maria, seated at the opposite end of the table, asks incredulously, “Why on earth does he owe you $150?” Our oldest son folds his arms across his chest and answers calmly, “He bet me that he could run faster than me and lost.”

His younger brother explodes apoplectically, “You cheated! You were on your bike!” His brother replies, “Bikes were not disqualified beforehand.”

“And he bet you a $150 that he could beat you on foot?” I ask, slipping my phone absent-mindedly into my pocket. “No,” our oldest boy replies, “he bet me $50 that he could run faster than me. I beat him three times.” Turning to his younger brother, “My nice thing is that you only owe me a $145.”

“He doesn’t owe you $145,” I decree, hoping to bring what I imagine to be decisive thinking to a conversation that I don’t fully comprehend.

“Dad, is there a secret ingredient in the noodles and clam sauce?” our youngest girl interrupts. Thinking for a moment, I remember: “Yes,” I reply, unsure, yet decisive.

“Onions!” guesses our youngest boy. “Yes, there are onions,” I reply, “but that’s not the secret ingredient.” “Truffle oil?” asks our oldest son. “Nope.”

“Cumin?” asks Maria, a refreshingly adult guess. “No cumin, sorry,” I’m reminding myself of Pat Sajak. Spin again.

“Allspice.” “Nope.” “Garlic?” asks our youngest girl. “There is garlic, but it’s not the secret ingredient,” I reply helpfully.

The kids beg for a hint. “It starts with ‘L’,” I offer. “What spice starts with ‘L’?” asks Maria, her face twisted into a question mark, clearly hoping I didn’t put linseed oil or Lemon Pledge in the clam sauce as a secret ingredient. “Oh!” she slaps the table, “Lavender!” “No lavender,” I intone. Spin again.

“Licorice!” “Nope.” “Lemon pepper?” “Nope.” “I’ll give you another hint,” I offer casually, a hustler. “It’s not from the spice cupboard. And the second letter is ‘O’.”

“O?” All four kids say it at once, their lips frozen in taut circles like a school of goldfish. And with that, the trail grows cold. There are no more guesses.

In the silence, Maria smiles at me; she’s cunning, quick, good at games. There’s a girlish curl at the end of her upper lip. She’d like to solve the puzzle. We lock eyes. I nod imperceptibly: OK. She smiles broadly. “Daddy says that tonight, the secret ingredient in the sauce is love.”

— Kevin Pottinger and his wife  Maria live on Vashon with their four children.