Dinner

My family and I.

I have a wonderful house.  It has, among other things;  three bedrooms, three bathrooms (two of which have locks),  a family room, a two car garage, a shed with working doors (unlike the garage) and a full acre of shabby yet serviceable lawn.  It is more home than I would ever have dreamed of owning.   Yet, with all this at my family’s disposal, our kitchen is where everyone has currently collected much sooner than I want.

Though not uncommonly the heart of any home, the issue with our kitchen is that a large portion of it’s real estate is gobbled up by a granite topped island.  An island so large we find repeating ourselves often necessary when trying to have a conversation across it.  The island was custom made, very expensive and exactly what my wife wanted.  Consequently, I have not quite gotten up the head of steam to take a sledgehammer to it.  I do dream of doing so quite often though.   

My wife folds laundry on the leeward side of  the island, a meticulous series of underwear, jeans and running clothes three tiers deep and so tall I can just see the top of her head from the other side.  We had been chatting, as I cooked, until we could no longer see one another and using lip reading as a crutch became impossible.

The boys are lumbering about poking at one another as they troll the infamous island.  Sometimes mixing things up by throwing random objects at each other across the expanse to see if they have a good arm as well as decent aim.  They are like goofy and annoying pre-pubescent sharks circling their prey. Nerd sharks who smell funny and do not know how to feed themselves.  One with a downy mustache and awkward gait, another with glasses and his shirt buttoned all the way to his chin and the third still slightly thick with the barest hint of baby fat, dimples not yet wiped clean with age.   

The agitation is partly due to it being Taco night.  The kitchen is hot and feels close while the scent of cumin and chili powder hang heavy in the air.  I feverishly fry up tortillas while fending off the metronomic assault actively going on behind me.  A hip check followed by something soft but heavy thumping my back, then falling to the floor, sets me off.

“Alright!”  I say, skipping over my annoyed voice and going straight for pissed.  “Stop it now!” putting a strong emphasis on the “Now” hoping to convey some extra sense of authority.

Sweet silence for a sliver of a moment then my oldest says, “What?” the shrug in his voice evident.  

“Seriously?” I ask.  Turning fully from my task and kicking away the stuffed pokemon at my feet. I square off and try a full-frontal assault, eyes hard and head aggressively stretched forward almost begging him to contradict.  Every ounce of me suggesting, “You really wanna poke a stick at me right now?”  

The oldest goes for a real shrug this time and says, “Alright.” and leans against the counter arms folded.  Sharp elbows and shaggy bangs settling into place practically hi-fiving the eye roll that follows.

I hold his gaze one beat longer and say to the room, “Just cut it.  You…”  I say pointing at Mr Mustache, “clear the table.  “You.” I say to the little one, “Get forks”

“But we are having tacos.” He says.

I recover quickly and bark with mock anger, “Don’t be smart!” while wagging a finger at him, my best cranky school marm impression. He looks at me completely unfazed  then I lean in and say, “How did you get so smart?  Get glasses then.” and ruffle his painfully straight hair as he passes, grinning like he won something.

“You…” I start but get cut off immediately.

“Nope.”  says the middle one.

The room stutters for just a moment. I stop mid-fry and c**k my head questioningly to the side as my wife pauses from tenderly patting the top of a crisp pile of boxer briefs as if so many babies bottoms.  The oldest coughs and the youngest looks at me out of the corner of his eye as if warning me to tread lightly.

“What’s that, hon?”  my wife asks, though we all heard him clearly.  A gentle redirection giving him a chance to change his answer or at a minimum his tone.

“I said no.” the collar on this ones shirt strains at the uppermost button as he adds,  “I am mad at dad.”  He is calm and self-assured with very little emotion showing but in his eyes I can see some perceived injustice that burns hotter than the frying pan in front of me..

“Alright, what?” I ask incredulous, turning again from my task to face off.

“You called me a dick.”

The room stops as if a volcano had just sprouted from the island spitting sparks.  A harbinger of doom.  A new silence, one less sweet, blankets the room save the soft pop and sizzle of a lone corn tortilla starting to burn in the pan behind me.  A tendril of smoke starts to twine up behind me and curl into the ceiling.

“You called him a dick?” my wife breaks the silence as she hails from across the divide. Even with the distance I catch the embedded question of, “What were you thinking?” layered through it so thick it could easily supplant the refried beans warming on the stove.

Something snaps and and the room goes from silence to 60 in .8 seconds

“Can I say dick?!” The youngest hollars out dancing a jig as he says it..

“No!” shouts my wife.  A pile of shirts sag, as if offended for everyone, and trying to throw themselves on the floor in protest.

“Not cool dad.” from the oldest, coupled with an epic eye roll that makes the last look like a twitch.

‘What!  When?” I ask throwing my hands in the air, almost losing control of my spatula.  I face up aggressive and defensive as the middle one stands solid, self righteousness his bedrock, losing no ground with clownish body language.

“This morning when you dropped me off at school.” he answers pointedly.

My face screws into a twist considering the morning as I feel the heat of matronly judgement ratchet up from across the room.  The volcano suddenly all to real.   Soon I will be ground zero for some serious stink eye.  It still needs to burn through the protective barrier of clothing so with a precious few moments I consider my day.

‘Wait!” I stammer, a snippet of the morning suddenly clear “‘Now wait.  What I said was, “If you had not been dicking around we would not have been late.  Ha!”   I point at the boy with the spatula and nod with overly wide eyes confident in my victory.

“Same thing” he proclaims, giving no value to my confidence.  I take stock then quickly turn to pry the now sadly rigid and blistered tortilla from the pan. No forgiveness apparent and just as entrenched.   

I catch my wifes eye and silently communicate,  “Give me a few.”  She nods and quickly generates a new focus for the other boys. I wait a few beats to dish out the meat and push the sliced veggies up against a pile of mismatched socks.  I then put down my spatula and lean in close to my boy.  I say quietly and only to him, “Listen, we can argue if you want but I promise you I did not mean to hurt your feelings.  I am sorry if I did.”

He stands rigid for a solid count of three, his shoulder high and fists clenched looking at me with hard eyes then takes a deep breath and exhales.  Everything about him softens and says.  “Alright.  Fine.  Would you quit dicking around and get me a taco?”

“Sure.” I answer, and hand him the burned one.