Kitchen Control

In almost every family I know, the kitchen tends to be the women's territory. My mother and her mother have prepared home-cooked specialties such as turkey dressing with raisins and bright green pickles for decades. Following their example, I enjoy cooking and entertaining family and friends alike. My kitchen painted sage green and lined with fruit border regularly brings peace and quiet since it sits completely separate from our noisy living room filled with Clifford, the Big Red Dog and hundreds of puzzle pieces. Six days a week I control what goes on in my square-shaped kitchen; I decorate it, clean it, and organize it. Almost every Sunday, I relinquish my kitchen control to my weekly culinary guest, my husband.

As we pull into the garage after driving home from church, my children, four year-old Emma and three year-old Ben, anticipate their favorite meal of the week. They take off their dress shoes and drop them in the white, plastic box in their packed closets. Meanwhile, Tim skims the church bulletin, mostly interested in the financial section to compare last week's contributions. "Is that all you care about?" I wonder.

"Who wants eggs and toast?" Tim asks Emma and Ben, knowing the answer.

"I do! I do!" they shout, raising their hands in the air. As soon as I hear this reply, I know I need to prepare for mass destruction.

Usually, I change into old, worn jeans and a sweatshirt two minutes after we get home. Church clothes are not suitable attire for our three-year tradition. Tim, dressed in dark Slates pants and a striped collared shirt, begins his mid-morning creation in my kitchen. Emma and Ben mostly love my weekday breakfasts and daily lunches and dinners, but Emma's eyes enlarge and her mouth waters when she knows her daddy will make her breakfast.

To begin the creation of his greasy masterpiece, Tim first selects a white, kitchen towel as his grease rag. With the towel draped over his shoulder, he first rummages through the cabinet next to the stove to find the non-stick skillet. "Where is it this time?" he sarcastically moans, knowing the large cabinet tends to swallow pots and pans. After the banging subsides, he carefully slices the mushy, cold bacon in half in order to achieve a crispy, brown prize. As I watch, I fearfully keep Emma and Ben out of the way of the popping grease and hot stovetop. Thank goodness their wait is short and they find something to momentarily occupy their attention.

"I need your help," the tall, dark-haired cook announces. Although at first our Sunday morning breakfast seemed quite complicated, we now have the organization down to a science. First, I find plates for the kids, knowing Emma prefers her melamine Barbie plate. I admit that at times Ben wants Barbie, but I let him gaze at Big Bird or Boo. The greasy bacon, now on a paper towel covered paper plate, tempts its onlookers as we wait for the entire meal.

As the bacon cools, Tim assembles two frying pans on the stove, one for hash browns and the other for eggs. The kids sit at the counter admirably watching their father finish their favorite breakfast. Tim uses the smallest, non-stick skillet to fry each egg, over-easy. Two to three tablespoons of Country Crock Light melt in the skillet before each egg opens. The contest begins. My husband, the great competitor, uses every ounce his culinary prowess to fry the perfect egg, yolk not broken and edges golden brown. When successful, he smiles in victory. When overcome, he whispers, "Son of a." Hopefully, the church service we just attended will force him to repent of his most recent sin.

"I need Emma's plate," Tim states. Using a black, non-stick spatula, he carefully lifts the prized possession onto the pink plate. Meanwhile, I put the final touches on her buttered toast with grape jelly. Ben, who always sits at the end of the counter, scrutinizes the jellied toast in order to select the best one.

"I want that one," he demands. Without looking at his pointed finger, I know exactly which one his hungry stomach desires. Finally, I slide their finished plates in front of them, and Tim begins round two, breakfast for us. I cut the over-easy egg and watch the golden yolk run over half the plate. Raised on fried, hard eggs, I eventually got over the impulse to gag when I see this raw display.

"My children actually love an egg like that," I always think. As I prepare the second round of toast, Emma and Ben devour their slimy eggs, crunchy hash browns, soft toast, and crispy bacon. I watch in awe and remember how not long ago Tim only made breakfast for two. The other breakfast in our old house consisted of Similac formula and Gerber cereal.

"I flopped," Ben admits. This expression, our word for spill or drop, requires my quick reply with a wet rag in hand. Ben does not continue eating until his hands and the counter are clean.

"I need your plate," Tim interrupts. I hand him my white, stoneware plate, hoping my egg is hard enough and I see no yolk running. Gracefully, he makes his own eggs last despite the knowledge that the bacon now sits lukewarm and the counter holds one layer of grease. Sitting at the counter, Tim grabs the kitchen towel on his broad shoulder and rests it across his thigh. "How is your egg?" he genuinely asks.

"Fine," I reply. Emma and Ben finish their meal. I interrupt my own in order to degrease their faces and hands before they enter the living room. At this point, conversation still does not flow verbosely. Instead, Tim scours the Post-Dispatch sports page while I browse the Target ad quickly, saving the A&E section for later. The action-packed kitchen with banging pans and sizzling grease now sits quiet except for the playful voices of Emma and Ben in the living room. "Is there a good game on today?" I ask my day's cook. He always responds yes with an explanation.

After browsing the ads for all I want but will not get, I clear the white counter now spotted with grease and prepare to wash the dishes in the sink. Although we have a dishwasher, sometimes I hand wash everything. First, I have to wash the skillets anyway. Plus it gives me time to think. "Thanks for cleaning up," Tim adds before he adjourns to the living room with sports page in hand. After throwing his grease rag in the dirty laundry, I stand at the stainless sink with hands in Ivory liquid bubbles, feeling very relaxed. Although I assume kitchen control six and a half days a week, I truly enjoying letting him take over. Sometimes I get too involved at cleaning, organizing, and doing that Sunday mass destructions help me understand the importance of relaxing with each other and talking to my kids.

Believe it or not, all the grease, the once clean kitchen towel, and the egg spots on the floor have become quite special to me. This forty-five minute ordeal has become one of my favorite weekly moments. As I dry my scalded hands and apply lotion to my cracking cuticles, I thank God for my healthy children and my supportive husband. I reach for the Fantastik, feeling content, full, and fulfilled.