It constantly amazes me how someone as intelligent, accomplished, and business savvy as my wife can be such a menace in the kitchen. Today, I have the stomach flu and was too sick this morning to take care of things at home. Martha also had been under the weather and sent Charlie over to tell us that we were on our own.
Rather than call in the reinforcements, a.k.a. my Grandma and Grandpa Cauble, Lex took the day off and said, “It’s just feeding you guys. How hard can it be?”
I was too sick to try to talk her out of it. The kids were happily setting their mom up for failure, too.
“How about oatmeal, Momma?”
“And raisin toast.”
Baby Eddie didn’t say anything. He just sat there in his highchair making spit bubbles and laughing.
Before she had even begun to boil water, the girls were covering their ears and admonishing their mom about the words coming out of her mouth.
I suppose, for some individuals, cooking acts like a trigger for Tourettes-like behavior.
From the den, where I was lying down on the sofa, I could hear her say something about a pan, then getting the right pan, then why don’t we have the right pan for oatmeal, then a loud metal crash, loud cursing, something about why the right pan had to be all the way back in the cabinet, and a “Dammit Freckles!”
I heard the sound of the back door being slammed. More cursing. Sweeping sounds, children saying, “Oh Oh, Momma,” more cursing. And the smell of burnt toast and what I think was an oven mitt.
My Grandma and Grandpa hurried over to help take care of Baby Eddie and me. Lex loaded the other two kids in the car and headed to town for breakfast. If she’s smart, she’ll bring back lunch and dinner, too.