Throughout the day -- from about 11 a.m. until 9 p.m. -- an ever-rotating cast of characters come in and out of my house. Men's shoes (yes, men's -- my 12 year old wears the same shoe size as his father) and purple and pink girls' boots litter the entryway. Coats are heaped on the end of the banister.
Some kids play pool or foosball downstairs. A few girls sit at the kitchen table and play Cranium Cadoo. (God bless you, wise and kind makers of Cranium Cadoo for you have occupied the interest and imaginations of housebound children like no other game on days off).
Others go sledding down the street at the sledding hill. Some attempt a snowman out back, but as they soon discover, "It's not the right snow for snowmen." Remember in "Smilla's Sense of Snow" there is some mention of there being hundreds of words for (different types of) snow in Inuit languages? This may be a legend, but today's snow would be "ineffective for forts and snowmen" snow. Feathery. Too dry. Like fake TV snow.
What all these kids have in common is their love for:
a) cheese pizza
b) hot chocolate topped with excessive numbers of marshmallows
c) popcorn
Happily, I know this cohort well and was prepared. I have a downstairs freezer stocked with frozen cheese pizzas and when some subset of my kids' friends enter the kitchen (after sledding, Legos, electric-guitar playing), they are hungry. (Ravenous.) They are in need of hot chocolate. (STAT.) I slide pizzas in and out of the oven. I fill up and then empty the electric kettle numerous times. I move unnoticed through the house, gathering up paper plates, mugs with dried bits of marshmallow stuck to their rims. I'm a cypher, ghost-like, able to eavesdrop, observe social dynamics, study the way that one looks like his adult self or this one is particularly gifted at sculpture. (Love the clay in Cranium.)
But when I make the popcorn, pouring oil in the bottom of a big glass-topped pot, suddenly all conversation ends in the kitchen. The men-children turn at the sound of the kernels hitting the pot. "Beast," one of them says, in wonder. He stands above the glass top and watches the kernels start to dance. When they start to pop, it's as if he is watching a fireworks display. Others come and join him, watching the popcorn pop.
"You're kickin' it old school," says one of them with admiration in his voice. I stand a little taller. Suddenly, I'm all Fergie and Eminem. I'm not just pouring a bit of canola oil into a pot with a few cups of generic popcorn, I'm "kickin' it." Old Skool.
(See me swaggah.)
c) popcorn
Happily, I know this cohort well and was prepared. I have a downstairs freezer stocked with frozen cheese pizzas and when some subset of my kids' friends enter the kitchen (after sledding, Legos, electric-guitar playing), they are hungry. (Ravenous.) They are in need of hot chocolate. (STAT.) I slide pizzas in and out of the oven. I fill up and then empty the electric kettle numerous times. I move unnoticed through the house, gathering up paper plates, mugs with dried bits of marshmallow stuck to their rims. I'm a cypher, ghost-like, able to eavesdrop, observe social dynamics, study the way that one looks like his adult self or this one is particularly gifted at sculpture. (Love the clay in Cranium.)
But when I make the popcorn, pouring oil in the bottom of a big glass-topped pot, suddenly all conversation ends in the kitchen. The men-children turn at the sound of the kernels hitting the pot. "Beast," one of them says, in wonder. He stands above the glass top and watches the kernels start to dance. When they start to pop, it's as if he is watching a fireworks display. Others come and join him, watching the popcorn pop.
"You're kickin' it old school," says one of them with admiration in his voice. I stand a little taller. Suddenly, I'm all Fergie and Eminem. I'm not just pouring a bit of canola oil into a pot with a few cups of generic popcorn, I'm "kickin' it." Old Skool.
(See me swaggah.)
No comments:
Post a Comment