First Whack At Dinner Swing At Cooking Determined That Son Would Learn His Way Around The Kitchen, Intrepid Mom Lets Food Fall Where It May
My little brother (age 43) has never been domestic. To avoid making dinner forever, he became a Catholic priest. As a child, Jim got a Y-chromosome exemption from table-setting and food prep, while sister Pat and I plunked down forks and knives and tried peeling apples without drawing blood.
When my son Jonathan was born, I vowed to make our home a “no-prince” zone. Imagine the thrill when, upon seeing me surrounded by dropcloth, clutching a paint roller, Jon offered to make dinner. The menu was a snap: June Cleaver-style roast and baked potatoes. Just stick the thermometer into four pounds of dead meat, scrub a few russet potatoes and dinner’s on its way. Or so I thought.
As soon as the can of Bobby Soxer Rose latex flat was pried open, my 7-year-old daughter stuck her head in the door.
“Jon wants to know where the meat is.”
“Tell him it’s the big red thing covered in cellophane on the third shelf of the refrigerator.”
More painting, more splatters on the floor two inches beyond the drop cloth. A second set of footsteps — this time, bigger, more insistent. Chef Jon, emerged from the kitchen.
“Mom, where’s the meat thermometer?”
“It’s that thing with the square piece of glass in front and the metal spike in back; just push the metal spike into the front of the roast.”
Five minutes of painting; only one smudge on my glasses. “See,” I marvel to myself, “if you just wait patiently for 12 years, kids DO turn from lumps of need into productive people!” My reverie’s shattered by the thump of gargantuan feet trudging up stairs, accompanied by a slab of beef.”What is it NOW, Jon?”
“I think I know, but which end is the front of the roast?”
“The wide end. Watch that wet wall on your way out.”
More rolling. It’s been 45 minutes since Jon left carrying the roast on a board like the head of John the Baptist. If I back away from the paint fumes, I can smell the beginnings of an edible meal. I had to see it for myself.
What I saw was a gastronomical Chinese puzzle. Sticking out of the top of the roast, like an enemy flag, was a broken meat thermometer. The hapless cow segment grazed a heating coil, fat sputtering. I hacked the roast into three pieces, the only sane alternative to climbing into the oven with fork and knife and eating it there. Although the beef resembled pulled pork barbecue, we were saved from a dinner of Frosted Cheerios.
What should Jon’s next domestic arts experiment be? Dragging a hamper down the stairs while it’s still under 90 pounds? Loading shirts into the washer without packing them in like commuters on a subway? Vacuuming without sucking up enough Legos, paper clips and Milky Way wrappers to destroy the Hoover?
It’s a tough call. We’ll start with something simple like slice and bake cookies (yes, slice them before you bake them.)