Why I don’t cook

September 8, 2009

#1 Son came home from college for Labor Day Weekend. After twenty four hours, he began to get weirded out, trying to decide if anything had changed, if this was home, if the dorm was home, etc. And began to talk about leaving a day early.


Not so fast, buddy.

To give him incentive, I said that I would be making a new recipe for French toast I found, and that I was saving it for Monday morning.

Sold. He was staying.

Except, that meant that I had to pony up with a hot breakfast. I am not exactly a morning person, and certainly not up to standing over a hot burner or handling knives before at least 10:30. But I am willing to make exceptions. And this wasn’t exactly rocket science. Eggs and bread. A dredge of coconut and cornflakes. Fry in butter. What could go wrong?

As I started out gathering ingredients, the DH went back to working on a minor bathroom remodeling project. New fixtures and a mirror.

In the living room, #1 Son was in charge of forcing #2 son to sing.

We have recently discovered that #2 Son is a tall, skinny white kid who can channel Barry White. His voice has changed in a big way, and he can now hit notes normally associated with whacking snakes on the Simpsons.

There was a brief period of hilarity, where we YouTubed songs with notes he could hit (Jungle Boogie, War, Swing Low Sweet Chariot) and forced him to sing while we laughed. But now we are trying to find something he can do which will give him confidence to sing louder, encourage him into a larger range, improve his intonation for choir and


make him sound more white.

In the kitchen, I am scrambling eggs.

#1 Son: Did you watch the Blues Brothers?

#2 Son: I am doing my math homework.

Me: (almost dropping an egg) Since when?

#2: You want me to do homework, right?

Me: For the last 10 years.

#1: You are doing homework by singing. Choir homework.

#2: Math is more important.

#1: And I am going back to school in a couple of hours. This is your last warning. Stand up. Back straight. Open your mouth.

Dan Akroyd: Rollin’ Rollin’ Rollin’…

#2: I only have a few problems left…

Me: And choir is an easy A. When you have a 3.2 gradepoint you can do it your way. (scramble, scramble, scramble)

#1: pwned!

#2: (miserably, and somewhat flat) Keep those doggies rollin…


Havoc: I am a Doggie.

Me: Get out of the kitchen.

DH: I’ve got the toilet paper roll up. I’m doing the mirror now.

Me: (looking into the bathroom and tilting head) It’s crooked.

DH: Not very.

Me: Use a level.

DH: Damn. Well. I assume that the hangers on the mirror are straight.

Me: Never assume.

DH: I should probably check. Is there a flat surface I can set it down on?

Me: No. Every flat surface in the kitchen has French toast ingredients on it.

#’s 1 and 2: Just rope, roll and brand ’em

DH: Well how do you expect me to… it’ll be fine.

Me: BOY!!!

#1 and #2: Which?

Me: Either. You. Stir this. You. Get a card table set up for that mirror. (We establish that the hangers on the mirror are nowhere near equal and I go back to the kitchen.)

Havoc: French toast? Poodles are French.

Me: You are not a poodle, you are a labradoodle. Get out of the kitchen.

DH: (passing through and looking at toast in progress) That seems like a lot of work.

Me: Duh.

#2: Cut em’ out, ride ’em in…

#1: (staring at French toast) how many of those do we get?

Me: NONE. Not until they are finished.

Havoc: What’s Dad doing?

DH: Havoc, get out of the bathroom. (Grumbling. Hammering.)

#2: Rawhide!

Havoc: Rawhide? Where? I love rawhide.

All things considered. It was amazing that I only got one burn.
And the French toast was adequate. Next time, I will offer to take him out.

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