Tag: dinner

The Kitchen

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The tile that hangs over my stove… a perfect image for The Kitchen

“You smell like food,” my daughter told me when I picked her up from practice. It was late for dinnertime, though we hadn’t yet eaten. While she was gone, I had been busily cooking.

“Yes,” I said. “I do smell like food.” I had noticed on my drive to meet her that my clothes had picked up the smell of onions. And maybe a slight cooking (i.e. burning) smell.

“Where did you go?” she asked, disappointed that she might have missed dinner out. Apparently, she was convinced that when someone’s clothes smelled of food, that person had been to a restaurant.

I thought for a second, calculating my reply. “Hmm,” I stalled. “I went to this place called ‘The Kitchen.’ Have you heard of it?” I asked. “They have great food there.”

Despite the fact that I was watching the road in front of me, I could feel the smile spread across her face. “I think I’ve been there. And the food was quite good.”

“There was a bit of an accident today though, which might be why I smell like food. The chicken and dumplings went over…. I haven’t finished cleaning it up yet.”

“Oooo! You made chicken and dumplings?”

“I did. That Kitchen is one of the best places to eat.”

“I love chicken and dumplings!” She was suddenly excited to get home. “So why is it that anytime someone smells like food, it smells like a fast food restaurant?” she asked.

I had to admit that on this particular evening, my clothes held a scent reminiscent of fast food. It was sort of a burnt onion smell, most likely because my dinner went over on the stove and therefore, didn’t cook in the most conventional manner (well, the part that left the pan, anyway).

However, I’d like to think that when I leave the house smelling of chocolate chip cookies, or pumpkin muffins, or gingerbread, people notice the comforting smell of Kitchen spices. And in that case, they might be inspired to go home and spend time in The Kitchen, too!

 

The Rules

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“So have you been following ‘deflate-gate’?” my boyfriend asks J as she is cleaning up the dishes from dinner.

She turns and stares at him as if he has asked her what size jeans she wears. I can see her formulating a response, and it takes her a minute to answer. When she does, her tone is one of authoritative condescension. “P, you might not know this, but this is a ‘football free home.’ We do not talk about football in this house.”

In my head, I am silently cheering her. Really, I have no interest in football; I have never had an interest in football; and since I have single-handedly raised my children, they seem to have no interest in football, either.

“Come on,” he goads her. “Football is the American pastime. You have to have an interest in football.”

She shakes her head. “We don’t do football.”

Just to get her going, he launches into a discussion of some team or other with some coach or other who is supposed to be amazing. Or something. Truly, J is right. We don’t do football.

When she’s heard enough, and she can no longer ignore him by running the water and playing in the suds, she stops him. “If you want to live in this house, you’re going to have to give up football.”

P’s jaw drops in mock shock. “Give up football? Back when I was coaching….” And he starts yet another story about football. She scrubs the skillet just a little harder, no doubt trying not to listen.

“Football. Free. House,” she reminds him when he finishes his story. It was nice of her to let him finish.

“What are you going to do when you go off to college and some nice guy starts talking to you about football and asks you if you want to go to a game?” The hypothetical situation is fabricated to get her to consider the possibilities. “You’re going to have to be able to talk intelligently about football.”

“Not going to happen,” she says, as she rinses the pan in the sink. “We are football free.” She dries the pan, sets it on the stove, and flounces out of the room.

Apparently, we are. Football free.

Nothing Good

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One day this week, my daughter came downstairs for breakfast. She opened the fridge and looked inside. She stood there just a moment too long, surveying. She sighed, “There’s nothing good in here.” No, there is never anything good to eat in my house.

This is one thing I dread about school letting out for the summer. My children will check the refrigerator, the cabinet, wherever, sigh and declare, “There’s nothing good to eat.” In an hour or so, they will come back to stare into the fridge and repeat the process. They don’t seem to notice that I have not left the house and no one has entered. “There’s nothing good to eat,” is a complaint I hear daily.

Last night, I made a batch of blueberry muffins—a dozen muffins in all. I got up this morning to make lunches and get the kids out the door. By the time I sat down for breakfast, the muffins were gone.

Monday afternoon, I came home from an errand to find C, who had just arrived from school, sitting at the kitchen table downing a rather large bowl of pasta salad. Actually, it was the “Family Sized” bowl, and I know this because we were going to have it for dinner.

“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to temper my accusatory tone into curiosity. I didn’t want him to think that I was accusing him of doing something wrong when he had made a relatively healthy snack choice.

“Mom!” he nearly yelled, immediately defensive that I should walk in and catch him eating, of all things. “I eat four meals a day! My school lunch is at 10:30. You can’t even call that lunch.”

“So this is one of your meals?” I questioned.

“Yeah. This is my lunch!” Well, it’s good to know my pasta salad wasn’t merely a snack, I suppose.

And during the warmer weather—like now—I try to keep some cut up fruit in the fridge. I cut up an average of two whole watermelons a week. I cut it into bite-sized pieces and put it in a bowl, so it will be cold and delicious and ready to eat. Every time I think I might snack on some watermelon, I go into the fridge and it’s not there. The empty bowl sits in the sink with only a bit of pink juice remaining in the bottom. One of the teens in the house has consumed the contents of said bowl, though he or she blames another. “I only ate some of it. C ate the rest!” or “J ate the last piece….”

Come to think of it, I’m beginning to understand why my kids say, “There is nothing good to eat!” I can’t find anything, either….

Warped

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It started at the dinner table, our discussion of warped things. W looked out the window into the settling dusk of evening. “And… it’s started raining again!”

“It’s raining?” I questioned, glancing out the window. It had been raining for two days, but the rain had stopped earlier in the afternoon, and I thought it was done. According to the weather forecaster, it was done, at any rate. Then again, the weather forecaster doesn’t have a great track record.

“Or tiny morsels of something are hitting our window,” W continued. “I can hear it.”

“Oh, that’s not rain,” I informed him. I’d been sitting at the kitchen table all day, and I had heard the noise he was referring to. “I washed the window last week, and for some reason, the sun-catcher is now tapping against the window.” I leaned in toward the window to study the sun-catcher. “I must not have put it back in exactly the perfect spot. Or may it’s warped….” The discussion wandered to how a window might be warped, until I brought it back to the sun-catcher.

I stood up to put some dishes in the sink. I looked at W. “I have a son who’s warped….” He turned to look at me, startled for half a second before the mischief smiled on his face.

“You do have a warped son, don’t you?” He glanced at C who was getting up to bring his plate to the sink. C was also smirking.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed, as he moved out of the kitchen for his next activity.

“You can totally say that, Mom,” W commented, “Because we’ll both think it’s the other one.” He watched C walk out the door, and he leaned toward me, speaking just a little quieter. “But I’d be right!”

I smiled in response, and W started the dishes.

A few minutes later, the warm water had begun to lull the crazy day out of him. He looked up from the suds that he had been spreading around a pan. “You know Mom, I’m not warped. I’m just bent.”

Yes, my friend, we’re all a little bent. That’s what keeps us from breaking.

Stage directions

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Always, there are the insights of people who are part of our lives, but just outside the inner circle of our immediate home life, to bring an objective perspective to what we do. With a word, a phrase, we suddenly see our everyday actions in a different light.

Last night, my sister stopped by my house on her way home from work. I had picked up some plants that she wanted for the garden, but I did not want the responsibility of keeping them alive through the predicted weather of another night of drought or severe thunderstorms—either seemed a distinct possibility. So she agreed to pick them up.

She arrived as we were eating dinner, and since part of our meal contained none of the ingredients that trigger her allergies, I offered her some food, and she accepted. Which is a long-winded way to say she hung around for a while.

After dinner, there was some talk of who was responsible for the dishes, and it was determined that it was J’s night. She promptly left the room, stating that “the leftovers needed to be left-overed” before she could begin. She spent the next ten minutes flitting in and out of the kitchen—complete with her J-like theatrical flourish—while I talked with Auntie.

The cat came in from outside and proceeded to regurgitate the organic material he had ingested—as cats do—onto the kitchen floor. It was a lovely addition to the non-stop-ness of the evening.

J flitted back into the kitchen. “Steps wide over the cat vomit,” she announced as she lifted her foot in an exaggerated dance-step over the puddle the cat left behind.

Auntie scrutinized J’s action. “Does everything come with stage directions now? ‘J enters the kitchen. Steps wide over the cat vomit….’”

I laughed. How many times had I heard one of the kids narrate his or her actions? How many times had I done so myself? Often, I would make a similar statement as I stepped over a child sprawled on the floor; my objective was first, to let the child know that I was trying to avoid him or her, and second, to let the child know that he or she was smack in the middle of the pathway through the room.

But this statement—a simple observation—from my sister helped me to reframe these narrations. They are like stage directions, and they tell the actor or actors what to do and how to do it.

I wonder if there is some way that I can edit these narrations and add my own. “J enters the kitchen; cleans up the cat vomit….’”

I think I’ll work on that….

Dinner harmony

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It was Friday morning, and we had just returned from a short vacation the previous evening. We had little food in the house—other than crackers and chips—so I was going to have to go shopping, both for food and for inspiration.

“What do you want for dinner?” I asked J as we scrambled up some eggs for lunch. The question always presents a challenge—both for me and for the ones answering—but this time, I had no ideas and needed direction.

She thought for only a brief moment before she said, “Popovers!”

Popovers have become a favorite food item in our house, though when the kids were younger, they used to eat the egg-y middles, leaving the crispy outsides. As they grew and their tastes matured, they began to devour fresh-from-the-oven popovers in their entirety. With my work schedule, however, I tend to make them as a weekend or vacation treat. But on this day, I had time and it was still chilly outside, so popovers seemed like a good choice.

“And make a lot so we won’t fight over them,” she added, thinking ahead to the need to accommodate her teenaged appetite.

“Hmm. What do you want to have with them?” I questioned. Because I consider popovers to be cold weather food, we often pair them with soup or stew, but the beginning of May is no longer soup and stew season.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Whatever.” And once again, I was on my own to think about what else to serve.

Later, when C finally got out of bed and came downstairs, I asked him the same question. (I didn’t ask W since he is still outgrowing his childhood pickiness and would be happy to eat pasta three meals a day, seven days a week. Then again, pasta is always a good choice…).

“Popovers!” came C’s immediate reply. “But make sure you make enough.”

Agreement! Because my children had been fighting all week, I had to give them credit for actually agreeing on something. Not that the choice of dinner is earth shattering, but I suppose it’s a start. And they both specified that I would have to make more than usual, so the “shortage” wouldn’t incite an unnecessary argument.

Clearly, we would have popovers for dinner. Some days, I’ll take whatever I can get.

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Snacks

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The idea of a snack in my house has been evolving lately. It used to be that the kids would ask for a snack, and they wanted some crackers. I would put some crackers in one of our little plastic bowls with a handle, and they would sit quietly in front of their latest art project or a favorite tv program and eat the crackers. As the kids grew, they began to add a little protein to their snacks—yogurt, string cheese, peanut butter. For the most part, my children have been pretty good about eating healthy snacks.

Fast forward to the teen years. Well… to today. I had just arrived home from work and was preparing to make dinner. Mondays involve lots of evening activities, so dinner is quick. I opened the fridge and started to pull out the leftovers to go with the pasta that was happily boiling away in a pot on the stove. I found a great variety of leftovers: a bowl of baked ziti, some deviled eggs, a chunk of meatloaf. I studied the meatloaf as I removed it from the fridge. Huh… I would have sworn the piece was (quite a bit) bigger, but I have moments in which my memory is not what it used to be. But then a thought crossed my mind.

“C, did you have some meatloaf after school?” I questioned. Total stab in the dark here.

He looked up from his iPad, staring at me blankly for a long moment. “I might have.” He turned back to his iPad, no further explanation. Really, none needed.

“Protein,” W said walking by me through the kitchen. “Growing boys need protein.”

Yep. Meatloaf has now become an acceptable snack. Along with spaghetti and meatballs, chicken parmesan, a ham and cheese sandwich (with some pepperoni thrown on for good measure), half a dozen eggs­­—you get the picture.

I’m going to need a third job….

Culinary Issues

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My culinary kid admitted to something by accident last night. And now I know the truth.

He started the school year in his culinary program with the basics: knife skills, chopping and cutting, and moved on to stocks, soups, salads, and sandwiches. I asked him if he got to bring anything home. “No Mom. We package it and sell it in the café,” because yes, vocational schools have cafés where teachers, students, staff, etc. can buy lunch and ready made dinners. It’s a great idea, really. Except for the fact that the culinary students don’t get to take any food home to test on their parents.

Second semester, my son moved to baking, and he has been studying the various processes involved in baking. So far, I have heard about the banana bread, the blueberry crumb cake, and the rolls. For the last two weeks, I’ve been hearing about the rolls. When I (once again) asked him if he would be bringing any of his baked goods home for sampling, he said no. Then he said, “The blueberry crumb cake wasn’t very good, anyway.” Okay then.

Last night, we were talking at the dinner table, and he started to talk about the “sculpture” he made in the middle of the school lunch table from everyone’s trash, i.e. leftover packaging. (In our house, we have a long history of making things out of—um—recyclables. That’s just the way we roll…). “First, I had a milk carton, then another milk carton, then the big bag from the rolls I brought, then another milk carton, then the ‘mushroom’ I made from my lunch bag….”

Stop. Right. There. My mind got stuck on the big bag from the rolls I brought. I didn’t hear anything else that was part of the sculpture because my mind stopped at that phrase. I realized he brought rolls from culinary.

“I’m sorry. Did you say you brought rolls to school?”

He stopped talking and looked at me with a crooked half-grin, then quickly looked away. “Yeah,” he said, fidgeting in his chair. He turned back to his siblings and continued his story, trying his best to ignore the piercing stare I was throwing directly at him. “So anyway, I offered one to my—“

“And you gave them out to your friends? At school? Without bringing any home?” Clearly, I must have misheard him.

“Yeah, Mum.”

“Why didn’t you bring one home so I could try it?” After all, I’ve only been asking since September, I wanted to say.

“Because I only brought six,” he paused here while he attempted to concoct a reason. “And I had plans for them.” And he turned back to his siblings and started talking about the people who were lucky enough to get a roll. Freshly baked. From his culinary class.

“You know what, C?” I interrupted his story.

“What, Mom?”

“I’m going to bake some cookies tomorrow, and I’m not going to give you any.” He turned to me. I looked him right in the eyes, my stare intense and unwavering. “Because I have plans for them.” I winked and smiled.

So now he knows the truth.

Periodic Table

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We were discussing the periodic table at dinner last night because … well, doesn’t everyone discuss the elements at dinner? It was just the boys and me at the table—J was off doing whatever thespians do on opening night. The conversation started with, “Let’s see how many elements we can name that start with the letter….” It might have been a fun game when I was in high school and actually remembered the elements; but I’m resourceful, so I was making them up.

I made up elements that included the names of our cats (Potonium). I made up elements after some random foods (Maltedmilkballium). And I made some with names that were just plain silly (Phantomite), but elemental, nonetheless.

The boys were getting bored with my silliness (interesting role reversal), so they decided to switch it up. “Let’s name the elements in order,” W challenged his brother. “Hydrogen.”

“Helium!” I shot in before anyone else could. I knew it was the only one I had a chance of getting right.

“Lithium,” C added to the game.

“Beryllium,” W continued, and they both seemed to wait for me to jump in. Nope. I got nothing.

“Boron,” C guessed.

“If you took regular chem, this would be a piece of cake,” I told him. He looked offended. “No,” I back-pedaled. “You would have had to memorize the periodic table. I memorized it when I took chemistry.” Of course, I only took two years of science in high school because there was ART, after all.

“Yeah Mom, but that was back when the periodic table only had five elements,” W informed me. Ow.

Yes, to my children, I am “old,” and they love to tease me about it. And someday, they will be “old” to their children, as well. It’s the circle of life. One day, when W is talking about the periodic table of elements at his dinner table, the circle of life will come full circle, and I will be the one laughing.