Someday to catch up?
still chugging along
[2012.11.16][539][21946]
Ever since Beth started high school, Mom and Dad had, not so silently, come up with an agreement in which Dad started taking on some more of the chores. The chore that was the least onerous to him was cooking, and so he ended up making breakfast, lunch and dinner on a regular basis. Dad preferred cooking to all the other chores Mom would have put him on, over yardwork, vacuuming or doing the dishes. He enjoyed needling Mom, saying that being a stay-at-home dad would be preferable to working a regular job. Beth liked to think he really loved cooking and probably would have been a chef if he had gotten the chance.
After a few years, Mom still went through the motions of being engaged in the food making process, shopping and sharing her opinion, but as for regularly working the stove or oven more than once a day, she had given it up the same way some people gave up dreaded habits like nail biting or smoking. Beth didn’t blame her, she had gotten nearly a lifetime of three square meals out of Mom and now it was Dad’s turn.
“Be careful with the baster.” Mom said pointedly to Beth, giving her a harsh side eye. “Don’t drop it.”
“Yes mom.”
“Its glass.”
“We’ll take care of it, honey.” Dad raised an eyebrow at Beth as he mouthed the word “new.”
Beth nodded. Their old baster had been a gummy white plastic tube on an old red rubber bulb. It had survived numerous drops, and Thankgsgiving preparations.
“Don’t overcook it. If you overcook it, or under-baste it, it’ll be dry and horrible.”
“You speak from experience?” Beth teased Mom.
“I’m being smothering aren’t I?”
“No honey, you’re being perfect.” Dad threw an arm around Mom, and hugged her close. “We promise not to overcook it, or drop the new baster or be up too late. Go to bed.”
“Yeah, Mom, go to sleep.” Beth mentioned nonchalantly as she went through the last grocery bag. “See you in the morning.”
“Oh, you two.” Mom lightly bussed Dad on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Beth could see Mom sauntering away as he watched. It was adorable, sort of, although it made Beth feel slightly nauseous. “You’re in charge of the baster, Dad.”
“As long as you do the heavy lifting on the marinade.”
“Deal.” The annual marinade was always the concoction of the maker: a mix of sugar, fruit and ingenuity. Beth headed immediately for the spice rack and starting pulling out whatever looked like it needed to be thrown out. “Expired. Is that okay?”
“Meh, in enough sugary goodness, it’ll probably be drowned,” Dad grinned. “The oven is sterilizing, right?”
“I’m sure I learned that in my one and only Biology class.” Beth recalled the lectures as hour long naps into her notebook as the professor flicked through colorful slide shows. With the help of massive amounts of studying before exams, she managed to do well despite her lack of attention. “Thank goodness I’m not a scientist.”
“You’re like a scientist, but with, you know, people stuff,” Dad offered. “There’s numbers and things in there.”
Beth snorted as she picked out her likely spice victims.
[2012.11.16][539][21946]
Ever since Beth started high school, Mom and Dad had, not so silently, come up with an agreement in which Dad started taking on some more of the chores. The chore that was the least onerous to him was cooking, and so he ended up making breakfast, lunch and dinner on a regular basis. Dad preferred cooking to all the other chores Mom would have put him on, over yardwork, vacuuming or doing the dishes. He enjoyed needling Mom, saying that being a stay-at-home dad would be preferable to working a regular job. Beth liked to think he really loved cooking and probably would have been a chef if he had gotten the chance.
After a few years, Mom still went through the motions of being engaged in the food making process, shopping and sharing her opinion, but as for regularly working the stove or oven more than once a day, she had given it up the same way some people gave up dreaded habits like nail biting or smoking. Beth didn’t blame her, she had gotten nearly a lifetime of three square meals out of Mom and now it was Dad’s turn.
“Be careful with the baster.” Mom said pointedly to Beth, giving her a harsh side eye. “Don’t drop it.”
“Yes mom.”
“Its glass.”
“We’ll take care of it, honey.” Dad raised an eyebrow at Beth as he mouthed the word “new.”
Beth nodded. Their old baster had been a gummy white plastic tube on an old red rubber bulb. It had survived numerous drops, and Thankgsgiving preparations.
“Don’t overcook it. If you overcook it, or under-baste it, it’ll be dry and horrible.”
“You speak from experience?” Beth teased Mom.
“I’m being smothering aren’t I?”
“No honey, you’re being perfect.” Dad threw an arm around Mom, and hugged her close. “We promise not to overcook it, or drop the new baster or be up too late. Go to bed.”
“Yeah, Mom, go to sleep.” Beth mentioned nonchalantly as she went through the last grocery bag. “See you in the morning.”
“Oh, you two.” Mom lightly bussed Dad on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Beth could see Mom sauntering away as he watched. It was adorable, sort of, although it made Beth feel slightly nauseous. “You’re in charge of the baster, Dad.”
“As long as you do the heavy lifting on the marinade.”
“Deal.” The annual marinade was always the concoction of the maker: a mix of sugar, fruit and ingenuity. Beth headed immediately for the spice rack and starting pulling out whatever looked like it needed to be thrown out. “Expired. Is that okay?”
“Meh, in enough sugary goodness, it’ll probably be drowned,” Dad grinned. “The oven is sterilizing, right?”
“I’m sure I learned that in my one and only Biology class.” Beth recalled the lectures as hour long naps into her notebook as the professor flicked through colorful slide shows. With the help of massive amounts of studying before exams, she managed to do well despite her lack of attention. “Thank goodness I’m not a scientist.”
“You’re like a scientist, but with, you know, people stuff,” Dad offered. “There’s numbers and things in there.”
Beth snorted as she picked out her likely spice victims.