Tonight when I went into the kitchen to start supper, my teenaged son followed me. I’m so far into menopause, hot flashes have quick-fried my brain; I thought he was there to help.
“What a nice change,” I beamed. “You can help by putting away the dishes in the dishwasher.”
“I’m here for a snack,” he answered, collarbone deep in frozen foods. Can I have a milkshake?”
“I’m starting supper right now.”
“I know,” he answered,” testing a frozen breadstick with his teeth. “I just need a little something to hold me.”
“What constitutes a little something?”
“Got any roast beef?”
“If you can hold on a second, I’ll throw a pig on the spit.”
“Gee, Mom, that’d be great. Would you make fries?”
“I was kidding. If you need a snack while I’m cooking supper, you have to make it yourself.”
You would have thought I’d said GameBoys give you cooties. That kid left the kitchen so fast, the vacuum sucked three popsicles and a corn dog with freezer burn out of cold storage.
There may be better ways to handle the situation, but this plan cleans out the refrigerator, defrosts the freezer, and rids the kitchen of unwanted pests.
Laugh
Showing posts with label supper. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supper. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Ready. Set. Roast!
Stand clear! It's Survivor: Suppertime.
Slide on over to Stage of Life and see what happens when the kitchen clock turns to TIME TO EAT in the Mullis house.
And feel free to let us know what sort of snack sets your stomach on SMILE when the weather turns sulky.
Monday, October 12, 2009
College Bound
Son #2, who generally packs for a trip by shoving a video game in the pocket of his camo jacket, was putting a few things in the car to take to college.
He tossed a box of Pop Tarts in the glove compartment and scored a Yoo Hoo out of the fridge. There is nothing at college that cannot be improved with proper nutrition. Unfortunately, artificial flavoring is his favorite building block on the food pyramid.
I couldn’t help thinking a little motherly advice would get him off to a better start. The Boy Scouts don’t pledge to Be Prepared because they hope to get lost in the wilderness, but somewhere in time there must have been a Scout Mother who preached the “you can never be sure” sermon effectively.
“Why don’t you take some extra paper and pencils?”
“No thanks, Mom. Could you hand me that slice of pizza off the bottom shelf?”
I handed him a slice of double cheese swathed in aluminum foil. If he made his bed the way he packaged pizza, we’d never find his pillow.
“How about your books? Change for the drink machine?”
“I’m good.”
“You never know what you need til you get there. How about a change of clothes?”
“Mom.”
I paused, trying to stuff the toy lamb he brought home from the hospital when he was born into his backpack.
“Yes, dear?”
I’m going across town to the city college. I’ll be home before supper.”
I popped Lambie in his backpack, tossed in a handful of change, and closed the zipper with a flourish.
He may be college-bound, but some truths never grow old.
You can never be sure what emergency will come your way. But Mom will pack something embarrassing in your backpack just in case.
He tossed a box of Pop Tarts in the glove compartment and scored a Yoo Hoo out of the fridge. There is nothing at college that cannot be improved with proper nutrition. Unfortunately, artificial flavoring is his favorite building block on the food pyramid.
I couldn’t help thinking a little motherly advice would get him off to a better start. The Boy Scouts don’t pledge to Be Prepared because they hope to get lost in the wilderness, but somewhere in time there must have been a Scout Mother who preached the “you can never be sure” sermon effectively.
“Why don’t you take some extra paper and pencils?”
“No thanks, Mom. Could you hand me that slice of pizza off the bottom shelf?”
I handed him a slice of double cheese swathed in aluminum foil. If he made his bed the way he packaged pizza, we’d never find his pillow.
“How about your books? Change for the drink machine?”
“I’m good.”
“You never know what you need til you get there. How about a change of clothes?”
“Mom.”
I paused, trying to stuff the toy lamb he brought home from the hospital when he was born into his backpack.
“Yes, dear?”
I’m going across town to the city college. I’ll be home before supper.”
I popped Lambie in his backpack, tossed in a handful of change, and closed the zipper with a flourish.
He may be college-bound, but some truths never grow old.
You can never be sure what emergency will come your way. But Mom will pack something embarrassing in your backpack just in case.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Lost and Found
I received a call from my son today. Early in the morning. On my cell phone. All indicators that a crisis has risen with the sun and was threatening to bring on gnashing of teeth and rending of garments before breakfast. He’s a wonderful guy, but stress transforms him from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hulk. (Hulk smash toast for getting too brown!)
It’s too early in the day for him to be concerned about the dinner menu, so there must be some other need like, say, the funnies are missing from the newspaper or he’s supposed to have a complete physical before soccer practice that afternoon.
Mothers can’t ignore hysterical children. At least not until they find out if there’s broken bones or missing teeth and whether the crisis is covered by insurance. I thought briefly of hurling the phone into the jaws of an oncoming minivan, but instead pressed the button and faced the mutant.
“Hello.”
“Mom, I can’t find my name tag.”
“I can’t find our house on a city map, but I don’t use your minutes.” It’s not that I don’t love the kid, but everything’s a crisis.
“I have to have my name tag to go to work.”
“They can’t tell it’s you from the joyous way you bound through the door in the morning?”
“Mom, it’s not funny.”
“Look son, it’s not like you work in the Oval Office and you’ve accidentally misplaced launch code numbers for the first volley of thermonuclear missiles. You work in a sandwich shop.”
“It’s not a sandwich shop. It’s a sub shop. The best sub shop in town.”
“Well can’t the best sub shop in town afford a new name tag?”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to look unorganized.”
This from the kid who refers to the pile of T-shirts in the corner of his room as his “spare clothes.” Several generations of dust bunnies have called that pile home and lived a very nice life indeed.
“Have you looked in the dryer? I heard something making that clickety-clunk sound in there this morning.”
“I’ll look. Hold on.”
I paused at a traffic light and studied a man tracking his vacation itenerary on a shiny GPS while I mentally computed the number of minutes my cell phone plan was losing to dryer lint.
A relieved voice in my ear said, “Got it. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s nothing. I live for these moments. It’s even better than getting AARP rates for my room at the retirement home.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re welcome.”
“Oh. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say down at the Piggly Wiggly when I have enough teenage boys in my living room to qualify for gangland activity and I buy enough hamburger to feed them all.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, son?”
“That reminds me. What’s for dinner?”
It’s too early in the day for him to be concerned about the dinner menu, so there must be some other need like, say, the funnies are missing from the newspaper or he’s supposed to have a complete physical before soccer practice that afternoon.
Mothers can’t ignore hysterical children. At least not until they find out if there’s broken bones or missing teeth and whether the crisis is covered by insurance. I thought briefly of hurling the phone into the jaws of an oncoming minivan, but instead pressed the button and faced the mutant.
“Hello.”
“Mom, I can’t find my name tag.”
“I can’t find our house on a city map, but I don’t use your minutes.” It’s not that I don’t love the kid, but everything’s a crisis.
“I have to have my name tag to go to work.”
“They can’t tell it’s you from the joyous way you bound through the door in the morning?”
“Mom, it’s not funny.”
“Look son, it’s not like you work in the Oval Office and you’ve accidentally misplaced launch code numbers for the first volley of thermonuclear missiles. You work in a sandwich shop.”
“It’s not a sandwich shop. It’s a sub shop. The best sub shop in town.”
“Well can’t the best sub shop in town afford a new name tag?”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to look unorganized.”
This from the kid who refers to the pile of T-shirts in the corner of his room as his “spare clothes.” Several generations of dust bunnies have called that pile home and lived a very nice life indeed.
“Have you looked in the dryer? I heard something making that clickety-clunk sound in there this morning.”
“I’ll look. Hold on.”
I paused at a traffic light and studied a man tracking his vacation itenerary on a shiny GPS while I mentally computed the number of minutes my cell phone plan was losing to dryer lint.
A relieved voice in my ear said, “Got it. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s nothing. I live for these moments. It’s even better than getting AARP rates for my room at the retirement home.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re welcome.”
“Oh. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say down at the Piggly Wiggly when I have enough teenage boys in my living room to qualify for gangland activity and I buy enough hamburger to feed them all.”
“Mom?”
“Yes, son?”
“That reminds me. What’s for dinner?”
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Menopause & Milkshakes
Tonight when I went into the kitchen to start supper, my teenaged son followed me. I’m so far into menopause, my brain is made of damp cotton; I thought he was there to help.
“What a nice change,” I beamed. “You can help by putting away the dishes in the dishwasher.”
“I’m here for a snack,” he answered, collarbone deep in frozen foods. Can I have a milkshake?”
“I’m starting supper right now.”
“I know,” he answered,” testing a frozen breadstick with his teeth. “I just need a little something to hold me.”
“What constitutes a little something?”
“Got any roast beef?”
“If you can hold on a second, I’ll cut some prime sirloin from the herd.”
“Gee, Mom, that’d be great. Would you make fries?”
“I was kidding. If you need a snack while I’m cooking supper, you have to make it yourself.”
You would have thought I’d said Gameboys give you cooties. That kid left the kitchen so fast, the vacuum sucked three popsicles and a corn dog with freezer burn out of cold storage.
Mom was right. Wisdom does come with age.
“What a nice change,” I beamed. “You can help by putting away the dishes in the dishwasher.”
“I’m here for a snack,” he answered, collarbone deep in frozen foods. Can I have a milkshake?”
“I’m starting supper right now.”
“I know,” he answered,” testing a frozen breadstick with his teeth. “I just need a little something to hold me.”
“What constitutes a little something?”
“Got any roast beef?”
“If you can hold on a second, I’ll cut some prime sirloin from the herd.”
“Gee, Mom, that’d be great. Would you make fries?”
“I was kidding. If you need a snack while I’m cooking supper, you have to make it yourself.”
You would have thought I’d said Gameboys give you cooties. That kid left the kitchen so fast, the vacuum sucked three popsicles and a corn dog with freezer burn out of cold storage.
Mom was right. Wisdom does come with age.
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