When I walked in the door the warm aroma of brown sugar and cherries was the first thing I took in, as opposed to the cool, crisp autumn air I’d just been surrounded by.
I could guess that whatever the smell was, the person who was causing it was my daughter, Cassandra.
At about age nine, she became unbreakably attached to the kitchen shortly after I introduced baking and cooking to her. By now she knew more than I did.
I walked into the kitchen, lit by the sunlight that spilled through the window, the lavender curtains hanging lank where they were, pulled away making enough light that the fluorescents that hung in the crystal embroidered chandelier. During the day the kitchen was beautiful, calming. But right now it was a cluttered mess.
I sauntered up to the area with the appliances, and sighed.
“Cassy, what are you doing?” I inquired.
She jumped; obviously she didn’t hear me come. “Oh, ah, I’m baking…” she explained reproachfully.
“And you’ll clean up this mess when you’re done?”
She seemed shocked by my words, and offended. “Of course I will. I’m not a little kid.”
“Good girl. What are you making?” I looked over her shoulder; there were an array of spices and ingredients. “A pie?” Not one that I knew the recipe of.
“Nope.” She turned back to the counter, her hands working rigorously. After a moment I realized she was shaping a dough-like mixture into little balls. “Tarts,” she said, pushing the little balls into the tart pan she’d had out. Then she smiled, “Dessert’s taken care of for tonight!”
Good. I could never quite manage to make anything as good as she could, which was really actually a bit disappointing seeing as I was the mother and thirty six while she was my fourteen year old daughter.
“Where’s your brother?” He was never where you’d think, never predictable.
“Upstairs playing a stupid video game,” she said, waving her food covered hand dismissing the thought. We both thought of video games as wastes of time, but it was his life to do as he liked as long as my husband and I, if not approved, permitted.
Annabelle, Cassandra’s Persian cat, sauntered in then. She hopped up on the counter and watched Cassy work. The light glinted through her fur, making the creamy white look almost golden, she’s such a beautiful cat with her blue eyes only adding to that. I often wondered whether they were the eyes of a Siamese rather than a Persian, but she was a purebred.
“I’m going to go see,” I said, stroking my hand down Annabelle’s back.
Cassy nodded but otherwise seemed oblivious to my presence.
The long hallway leading to the staircase was lit through the window in the family room, memories of rewards and recognitions from the kids’ schools hanging on the wall their frames having glares on them from places where the light was sharper.
There were more on the side of the staircase with the wall, the other side opening so you could see the kitchen, though the view was much extraordinary than from a doorway. I, as you can see, am very proud of the room. I’ve spent a lot of work making it look the way it does. I have every right to priding myself in it.
The upstairs hallway was much darker than downstairs, even though both floors had an equal amount of windows.
My son, Alexander, was sitting in front of the television screen in his bedroom. I was a bit disappointed that the classy name didn’t fit his personality at all like Cassandra’s did, but what can you do?
His dog, which he named Chief for a reason that was beyond me, jumped up off the floor where he sat next to him and trotted over to me, licking my hand in welcome. Chief, as Annabelle, was a good looking dog. He had the standard look of a Border collie, slender and average sized, but I had no doubt in the world that if it came down to it he’d be an excellent guard dog.
I patted his head and walked over to crouch where Alex sat.
“Is this really how you plan to spend your Saturday afternoon?” I inquired.
“It’s eleven o’ clock; technically, this is how I’m spending my Saturday morning.”
I sighed heavily. He was such a smart alec.
“But it’s so violent.” I watched the animated characters run around and every now and then one would shoot another, sending blood and something I didn’t want to know what it was gushing from the wound.
“Well, duh,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s a spy game, and you just happened to come up at the time when he’s discovered and has to fight his way out of trouble. Don’t mess with me mom, I’ve been trying to beat this level for decades. You’re messing the chance of me doing that up.”
I was done watching my sons mind waste away to this moronic thing.
I walked down the stairs to watch Cassandra work, but she was putting the tarts in the oven to bake.
She grabbed a rag and started rubbing away spots of cherry, dough, and spilled spices on the counter. She’d always been a bit OCD like me, working hard and rigorously until every spot, even the ones no one would notice, were gone.
Though she did it thoroughly, she always finished quickly.
“What sounds good for dinner tonight?” I asked wearily. I’d spent most of the night putting the finishing touches to my book and then going over the day’s chapters so the editor would have less to do. I felt bad that they had to read a book that they couldn’t enjoy as much because they had to analyze every word and then change half of them.
“Uh,” she said, considering, “How about spaghetti?”
I nodded. “Sounds good.” Easy too.
She scuttled around the kitchen taking out several ingredients, and I felt suddenly bad that she just finished cleaning. I checked my watch. “We don’t need to start now.”
“Ah, but it tastes better if you let the sauce simmer in the juice.”
“But the kitchens spotless.”
She scoffed. “You know I’ll clean it up again, don’t worry.”
“That’s not it,” I explained, shaking my head. “It’s just that you just finished cleaning it.”
But she went back to work anyway. “Go sit down or something mom, you look like your about to collapse.”
She liked to cook, so I thought she’d be fine doing it alone. “I’ll be in the living room if you need help.” She laughed at the thought.
I walked back into the kitchen after about an hour of watching the news, and Cassy was still slaving over the stove like she enjoyed it, though the steam rifting up out of the pot was making her already slightly flushed cheeks turn pink. She was my gorgeous little girl and I felt a bit concerned for her every time she showed signs of dehydration from the kitchens heat. I could tell she was getting tired, standing up like that and stirring the pot for an hour, and then I saw the clock. It was five o’ clock, I must’ve fallen asleep.
She looked up at me. “How was your nap?”
“Honestly,” I pulled my arms behind my head and stretched, “I hadn’t realized I’d been taking one, or that I had.”
She giggled. “I know. You were sleeping like the dead.”
“You could’ve woken me up. You look like you’ve been working the whole time.” Her golden hair, pulled up in a ponytail, was drooping around her face. She had my husband’s hair and my eyes and facial shape. Alex was just a little clone of his father.
Our two beautiful children. I couldn’t be more happy with my life
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