“I am not a slave to my family.” That’s how I feel sometimes when I have moments of under appreciation. I love my family and I like taking care of them, but sometimes I can’t do it. I’m feeling cheated somehow and lash out in response. I want my impact, my presence to be known. Can they survive without me?
I hit my limit after just three days of Winter Break; it was starting to smell like the proverbial old fish. I didn’t like it. My kids are unwinding from their hectic school schedules, playing Xbox or watching “Storage Wars” episodes on TV, in between meals of course. My in-between was making the meals and cleaning up afterward. I’m winding up. Enough!
“Ok guys, I’m doing all the work here and it’s going to stop. We are going to share the wealth. Each of you is going to make dinner for the family this week.” My older one is assigned Tuesday and the younger one gets Wednesday. Stunned, they try to comprehend what this new decree means. Is this possible? Can Mom really do this?
My eleven-year-old, The Resister, tests it out to see if Mom might budge a bit. “Well, we’re going to have breakfast for dinner because that is the only thing I know how to make.”
“Fine. What about vegetables?” I say.
“I’m going to make hash and put peas on top.” He glares at me, thinking he’s got me.
“You know I don’t like peas,” I cautiously respond and glare back.
“Well, you get what you get,” he smugly states.
Oh no! He’s regurgitating the very words I feed him. I relent, reluctantly. This isn’t exactly the lesson I hoped to impart. I wanted the guys to know what it’s like to wait on the rest of the family, see how hard it is be head chef, a little intra-family swap. It didn’t occur to me I am the other side of the deal; I am now the child. Wow. I really sound like that?
First up, my oldest, he is a lover of all food Asian. He decides to make Korean hot pots where the thinly sliced beef and egg yolk are cooked in the scalding broth in your own personal bowl. I don’t really share this love so much but it’s a “thing” for him and my husband, a second generation Chinese. My husband shops for the ingredients at the Asian markets. Super thinly sliced beef is in packages like a T-Bone is wrapped at Safeway. He also picks up bean sprouts, cilantro, dried seaweed, Vietnamese noodles, jalapeno peppers, green onion and celery. The broth is a secret combination of beef and chicken flavors, The Tuesday Chef’s creation. My husband couldn’t resist supervising this project, another element in “the lesson” I hadn’t anticipated, a moment for father and son bonding. There’s no missing mom in this scenario.
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| Hot Pot |
The resulting effort is the most elegant bowl of soup to ever cross our dinner table. A flare for presentation fills my son with pride. Matchsticks of green onion stand upright and slightly uneven like pipes from the organ at church. (Ah, ya may not see God there but pipes, ok. Now they are in my dinner. He shared his inspiration.) The egg yolk is floating just below and a sprig of celery leaf below the yolk. I’m staring at an edible Japanese painting. It is delicious and very healthy. And my proud, teenaged chef claims he had fun, surprisingly. This is a huge bonus if you know teens.
Wednesday comes and The Resister is up for duty. I try to convince my eleven-year-old he can make a chicken pasta dish he loves and it’s easier than hash. I wanted something lighter than a country kitchen favorite but his mind was set.
At 5:30 I let him know his dinner will take about 30 minutes to prepare. “I think we’ll eat at 7.” He jumps on the computer to wait out the clock. He’s authentic, playing Mom out in great detail, the little rascal.
As the hour approaches 6:30, I tell The Resister he better get started and I’ll grab his brother to help.
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| Breakfast Dinner |
“You can set the table while you’re waiting Mom,” his first head-chef instruction. My husband and I look at each other. Our guy is really enjoying his power. We watch him delegate jobs like plating to his older brother and he cooks up the hash browns and pancetta. He makes an over-easy egg to place on top. He’s got three plates lined up with the goods and is cooking his fourth egg. He barks at his brother to throw Mom’s dinner in the microwave to reheat. “Hurry up. We’ve only got 5 minutes before it’s seven o’clock.” He’s been watching too much “Restaurant Impossible”.
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| My Family |
We dined by candlelight as mom had ample time to set the table. Our breakfast dinner was fantastically fattening and scrumptious. Not a vegetable in sight, a silent truce. The proud chef asked which meal was better and of course Mom loved them both, she didn’t have to make them.
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| Dessert: Cinnamon Eggnog |
And lastly, my older son couldn’t resist one more chance at chef-dom. Dessert was missing and he improvised. Being Christmas time, he poured small glasses of soy eggnog, topped with a dusting of cinnamon, spread evenly by gently blowing into the glass. It worked perfectly, just didn’t need to know “the how”. He placed a clementine orange segment on the rim of the glass, a festive and tasty complement.
Both guys got me out of my food rut and enjoying something new, right from my own kitchen, like a guest chef. It was kind of fun to “get what you get”, overthinking is overrated. A lesson in mom appreciation turned into a lesson of family appreciation through the joy of cooking and eating. Not exactly what I was looking for but the break from cooking and electronics was nice and a glance in the mom mirror was entertaining. Who’s the real parent? Nobody missed Mom’s cooking one bit, especially Mom. We found a new tradition instead. I’ll take it.
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