"Sit," the boy commanded.

I thought I detected an unfamiliar note of concern and tenderness in his voice. But my powers of detection were blunted by an interrogation level of sleep deprivation. It was a time of happy chaos within our growing household: The boy, not quite two years old, had just been joined by a girl whose age we still measured in days.

We sang nonsense songs all night and ate ice cream for breakfast. For a week, nobody went outside or wore pants.

Sensing a frayed fabric of life in need of mending, my son stopped me as I leapt by him on the way to fetch something infant-related in the kitchen.

"Dada, sit," he said, indicating the seat opposite his high chair. He sounded serious. So I sat.

Typically at this point, he would ask to honk my nose or demand a Lego train car. But now he fixed me with an arresting look, forgiving but firm. We need to have a little chat, it said. Pay attention.

I recognized it as the kind of look I'd no doubt use on him in fatherly negotiations ahead. But now my son had the floor and was ready to make his case.

"Dada," the boy said, "I want to have eat-eat."

I was impressed. Nobody around here, least of all the nearly two-year-old, was in the habit of using full sentences.

And I knew what he meant. "Eat-eat" was more than the sum of its repetitive parts. It wasn't food as fuel. Eat-eat, I'd come to understand, was a proper family meal. It was togetherness at the table, the boy sharing what we ate.

It was civilized—healthier and more fun than the kind of disjointed perma-snacking we'd fallen into. He wanted to yell "Cheers!" and clunk his milk cup into my wineglass.

We all wanted eat-eat.

The directive was clear, the tone urgent: Venture forth into the sunny world to hunt and gather (or at least shop and schlep) something nice for dinner.

So we all put on pants, except for the little girl, who dozed in her pastel muumuu-straitjacket. And we set out toward the farmers' market with two strollers and bed head and a bag of wipes.

When the boy had first arrived, I'd been flush with joyful mania—and the need to make myself useful somehow. The miniature, mother-focused creature asked little of me in those early weeks, so I set my euphoric enthusiasm loose in the kitchen. I cranked up the oven and churned out piles of pizzas for visiting grandparents and friends. I made chicken salad for the new nanny and heaping bowls of nutty farro salad with tiny halved tomatoes and sweet beets for the new mom. I simmered and froze great quantities of chicken stock and meat ragouts for our bright and homebound future.

This time around, confidence had bred complacency. Until my son reminded me of the central importance of making sure we all ate well.

The question, then, was what to make? What to feed a growing gang when you've got work deadlines to meet and a son who knows you're phoning it in; when it's also brain-meltingly hot out and everybody's already a little goofy from lack of sleep?

The answer is, you want something stabilizing that can be assembled—in stages—ahead of time without too much sustained attention; something that ­easily scales to mass quantities and can be repurposed for days.

At the market, I saw crates of green and wavy purple lettuces, peppery mizuna, and esoteric leafy things whose names I would never remember even when rested. Typically I'm not a salad craver, but I'd been living on ginger ice cream, lemon sorbet, and adrenaline, and these leaves, man, they were lookin' real good to me. Across from the lettuce monger was the duck dude. He pulled some nice-looking smoked magrets from his case, and I knew we had the makings of a kick-ass eat-eat.

I spent a hot week in the Périgord region of southwestern France a few years back. Every lunch consisted of some variation on the salade Périgourdine, which roughly translates as "all the delicious things you can think of thrown together in a louche, duck-and-goose-fat-laden manner not at all resembling austere American notions of a salad."

My version, adapted to what I found at the market, may not be traditional, but it is true to its spirit. Not quite a recipe, it's simply a reliable combination of things that shine together: sturdy, flavorful greens brightened by a mustardy vinaigrette; the sunsetty yolks of good eggs; the earthy heft and salt of the duck, thinly sliced; the crunch of walnuts; a bit of crumbly blue cheese.

The nice thing about a salad like this is that you can cook the eggs, wash and dry the greens, and whisk your vinaigrette whenever you want. (While others are napping, say.) Then assemble it— at room temperature—for lunch, dinner, or anytime in between (or after).

The nicer thing about a salad like this is that when I served it to the mother, whose soul had also been silently crying out for leafy things and smoky-salty protein and the satisfying crunch of bread nuggets crisped in duck fat, she let out a low purr of approval. Her look said, Now you're pulling your weight around here.

My son inhaled the greens, hand to mouth, a natural. He ate the egg, cut up. I tore off a piece of the smoked magret and told him, "Duck."

"Duck," the boy said, taking it and seeming satisfied. After a thoughtful chew, he appeared to remember a bedtime book about lost ducklings and said again, a little scandalized, "Duck?"

"Cheers!" I yelled to change the subject. That was a conversation that could wait. The boy clunked my glass with his milk cup. Beside us in her cradle, the girl slept on, quietly. The important thing was that we were here together, seated and finally sated.

A French-ish Salad to Feed an Expanding Household

An assemblage of delicious things to be deployed in necessarily inexact proportions.

Leafy greens , the more peppery the better.

A mustardy vinaigrette. Whisk 2 tablespoons red wine vinegar with 1 teaspoon each Dijon and grainy mustards. Gradually whisk in ½ cup olive oil.

Fresh farm eggs. Slide into already-boiling water, cook for about 7 minutes, then put straight into ice water.

Smoked duck breast. Trim off some fat for frying the croutons, then thinly slice the meat against the grain. Order at dartagnan.com .

Toasted walnuts

Slivered red onion

Croutons. Fry torn bread in a combo of olive oil and rendered duck fat until crisp.

Crumbled blue cheese

Now, arm yourself with enough ingredients to feed everybody for a few meals. Toss some greens with vinaigrette. Top with the duck and halved eggs. While snacking on the croutons, scatter some around. Sprinkle the cheese, onion, and walnuts over the top; finish with Maldon salt and pepper. Bask in the admiration of your loved ones. Nap. Repeat.