Out of the Kitchen, Boy

The kid just doesn't have any cooking skills.

This doctor’s visit is dragging on. He’s running late, how typical. I check the time on my phone, seeing that it’s 4:42 p.m. and I've still got a 20 minute drive home. Fabulous. The kid will be starving before I even get supper started.

I text the boy, ‘running late…be home soon’

A minute later, he texts back: ‘Shall I make supper?’

Dear God. I think back to the last time he tried making supper. Not pretty. So I text back ‘Don’t try. I can’t afford another microwave. How about McDs?’

Hopefully a few McChickens and a fry will appease the kid. Maybe I’ll even grab him one of those pie things. Yeah. I’ll get him anything (on the Dollar Menu) to keep him from potentially setting the kitchen on fire.

The phone beeps again. ‘Please? I can make pizza’

Visions of blackened chunks of crust covering the inside of my oven and burnt cheese glued to the rack flash before my eyes. ‘Do you even know how to turn the oven on?’

I’m getting disgruntled. Where is the doctor? Can’t we hurry this up? This is just a check-up, no need for it to take near this long. Grrrr. And to top it off, the boy isn't texting back. I’m about ready to flag a nurse.

“Hi there!” says the doctor as he sweeps in the door.

I flash him a weak smile and half-hearted greeting, getting right to business. “Antibiotics worked just fine, I’m doing great. Are we done?” I ask as I stand up to leave.

The doctor raises an eyebrow. “Ahhh… yup. I suppose we are.”

Beep. A muffled sound comes from my purse.

I quickly thank him as I walk out the office, hand fishing in my purse for the phone. I latch on and pull it out. The text reads ‘Raman noodles?’

Landing in the driver’s seat of my car, I text back. ‘You’ll melt a bowl. Seriously. Mcchicken and fries! Nom nom nom…’
I toss the phone in the seat beside me, and start up the car. I have to get home before he destroys the kitchen. Before I can put it into gear, the phone beeps.

‘No mcds’

Arg! I cry, feeling as though I’m running out of options. Maybe I’ll pick up pizza? No that will take too long. What else is on the way home? I scan for restaurants in the area. Oh! Tacos… what teenage boy can resist those?

‘Tacos? I’ll grab you soft shells…’

I throw the car into gear, almost hitting someone as I’m backing out. I only get a block or two away when the phone announces his next text. At the stop light, I check the text.

‘Maybe. Can I make soup? I’m hungry’ his text reads.

The vivid scene of his last soup-making attempt flashes before my eyes. Flames shooting from the microwave, because he didn't know he was supposed to take it out of the can first. At least he’d opened the can so it didn't completely blow up. Still, the poor microwave. And cupboards. And wall.

I attempt to text back while the light is still red, but only get in the words ‘just wait’. I speed up to the next light just as it turns green. And the next. Seriously? When do I ever hit all green lights?

The phone is still silent when I get to the next red light. I finish my text, ‘On my way. Getting tacos now.’

As I’m pulling in the drive-thru of the taco joint, he texts, ‘it says I can heat it on the stove. Can I?’ 

A muffled voice comes from the speaker box in the drive-thru. I text back ‘no! just wait!’ before I scramble to put in my order. Extra tacos should sooth his grumbling tummy and make him forget about trying to cook, so I order a total of 6 for the both of us.

Beep!

‘but … hungry now.’

Really kid? I think to myself. ‘got extra tacos. Coming home NOW.’

Tossing the money at the teen-employee and snatching the bag out of her hands, I speed off in the direction of home. I pray the house is still standing.

No more text from the boy before I pull into the drive, so I’m satisfied he’s heeded my warning. Yet as I walk into the house, peace offering in hand, I’m assaulted with a burnt stench.

“What did you try to make?” I holler from the front door as I kick off my shoes. “Didn't I tell you to wait?”

“But I was hungry!” the boy says, popping out of the kitchen with black toast in his hands. “Oooo tacos!” he adds, snatching the bag out of my hand and disposing the failed attempt at toast into the trash.

I let out a heavy sigh of relief. Crisis averted. Maybe next time I’ll make him come with. 

Word count: 819