This was not what I wanted to hear.  The boys ranged from tiny to kindergarten, and they were still cherubic and, for the most part, charming.  I didn’t want my friend fast-forwarding time away to the day when there would be three giant teenager boys in our kitchen, like age progressions on a milk carton.

Time waits for no man or mom, however.  And lo, it has come to pass. 

Malcolm turned 13 yesterday. 

Hugh is 15.  Ian is 18 . And yes, they do all swarm in the kitchen, often all at once, yanking open pantry, fridge and freezer in search of calories to pour into their gaping maws. 

Even  Hugh, who spent his first 12 years as an air plant, existing on only tiny portions of beige foods and water, has now taken a great interest in mealtimes.  As soon as he walks in the door at 3 PM, he asks ”What’s for dinner?”

Fortunately, the boys are all skilled at foraging for themselves.  They can manage their own snacks and occasional meals.  Hugh has taught us all that the perfect amount of time to defrost a bagel in the microwave is 23 seconds, and that pierogies are best when plunged into a bowl of warm water before sauteeing begins.  The other night he prepared pasta for a visiting friend, because Chris and I were nowhere near ready to eat – so he took matters into his own hands. 

Ian makes his own pizzas from scratch, and Malcolm makes his own tuna melts.

As the opposite of a foodie, I am personally thrilled that our boys can fend for themselves in the kitchen. 

For the birthday celebration, however, we let someone else do the cooking. 

Today Hugh quoted the tag line about cous-cous:  “The food so nice, they named it twice.” He proposed a meal of double-named foods, serving cous cous and finishing with Dum-Dums for dessert.  

But what about an entree? Chris came up with mahi-mahi.

The perfect occasion would be a double date.  The perfect day to do this would be 10/10, 11/11 or 12/12. 

What can I say?  I’m not into cooking, but I am into words, so one of the few ways to get me interested in meal planning is to disguise it as wordplay.  Let me know if you think of any other double-food that should be added to the menu.   

• Today you ask God to forgive you and he/she always does – even if you are begging forgiveness for the exact same list of sins you offered up last year. (At least that’s what I’m betting on).
• You fast on this day to mark the solemn nature of the occasion. Typically you gorge yourself the night before which never helps; no matter how much brisket you eat, you’re still STARVING at 8:30 a.m. the next morning.
• We end the holiday with a meal called “Break Fast” (not “breakfast” — say it like two words) which requires convening at the normal dinner hour of uh… 4:00 p.m. to enjoy a host of yummy dairy and fish items: bagels, cream cheese, blintzes, lox, whitefish and of course…. Kugel.

For a Jew, Kugel is a lot like pornography. You can’t exactly define it but you know it when you see it. And it doesn’t help that there are countless types of kugel – usually associated with the person who always made it, which brings me to my story.

To celebrate Break Fast, my family is assembling at my father’s house. He is, of course, getting “a tray” of the fishes, bagels and spreads above. I offered to bake a kugel. It is one of the more labor intensive contributions so nobody fought me for it. So I planned on making my “Mom’s kugel” which is actually a HUGE family favorite because it tastes like cheesecake. Cheese cake for dinner? Enough said.

But my Dad and I were discussing the kugel earlier this week and he flat out asked subtly hinted that he wanted me to make “Mom-Mom Mabel’s kugel” (“you know with the apples and raisins”). This, my friends, is an entirely different kugel to which I do not have the recipe. I believe it could have been buried with Mom-Mom in 2006. Sure -I could have said no to Dad – but I didn’t for two reasons:

1) I miss Mom-Mom-Mabel and what a fitting tribute it would be to totally mangle her kugel for my entire family.

2) I have something to prove. You see, several years ago, I offered to bring the kugel and chose to make Mom’s recipe. But because I have “other gifts”, I forgot to add the sugar, which it turns out is kind of important if you don’t want the kugel to taste like a cheesecake for diabetics. “Kugelgate” as it is now known will live in my family’s hearts and minds forever unless I can redeem myself.

So last night after we cleaned up from dinner, I embarked upon the triple lindy of Jewish culinary acrobatics. I simultaneously made two kugels at once – Mom’s and Mom-Mom Mabel’s.

“Daddy, what is Mommy doing in the kitchen..with ingredients…and electricity?”

I had called my sister-in-law Beth for a recipe that could pass for Mom-Mom Mabel’s kugel. This was fortunate in two ways. First, she had a recipe that did not include verbs I did not understand. And two, she quipped about a friend of hers who accidentally called a “kugel” a “kegel” to which she dead panned, “Yeah, not exactly the same thing”. This threw me into hysterics for the rest of the evening, almost rendering me unfit to cook. Fun!

So how does it end? I baked two kick-ass kugels while doing kegels (not really but I couldn’t resist). I know the kugel my dad is getting won’t be exactly like his Mom’s. (I know this because for years we kids suspected that Mom-Mom Mabel sprinkled untraceable amounts of Metamucil in everything she cooked, sending us all running to the bathroom within 30 minutes after eating. And I didn’t do that.) But I hope everyone likes it.

And, if I’m lucky, maybe some day my boys will ask their children to make Grandmom Emmy’s kugel for them (“you know, the one that tastes like diabetic cheesecake?”).

Mom-Mom Mabel Kugel (left); Mom Kugel (right)

The person who most suffered during our 13 years of bad kitchen luck was the cook – Chris. I was fortunate to marry a man who enjoys and excels at cooking, and prepares 95.7% of the meals around here. As you’ll see from these before pictures, our old kitchen’s lack of counter space meant Chris had to use the stovetop as a food prep surface….and the room’s abject dreariness meant I spent most of my time avoiding it.

Six months ago, the new kitchen was finished.

Saturday, Chris was embarking on a huge project of making salsa. He long ago became resigned to the fact that I’m not enthused about cooking and didn’t expect or need any help with his project. But since the kitchen is such a nice place to be these days, I offered to chop all the onions, which I tearfully did, and this turned into a fun five-hour stint of serving as sous chef. Together, we put up 24 pints of salsa . And for a giddy moment there, I started to think that maybe I didn’t hate cooking, I just hated the old kitchen.

I have been a single parent for six straight days. I kind of liked it. It’s not a situation I would want to become permanent. But there is something about claiming all parental controls for your very own for a few consecutive days that is rather appealing. I think I saved at least five hours of time that I would have spent coordinating with Dave by just talking to myself instead. Call it a little vacation from team work. And a chance to have the brothers all to myself.

On Saturday morning before Dave left for his teacher technology conference I went food shopping and stocked up on what Dave refers to lovingly as crap goodies. TastyCakes, Oreos, Reeses Puffs Cereal, Klondike Bars, Chocolate Chips, Frozen Lasagna, Cookie Dough. It was an impressive cart, I must say. Plenty of Vitamin H! For “Happy”. Here is some of the things we did these past five days:

• Went to see the Treehouse exhibit at the Tyler Arboretum
• Barbeque at Nanny’s House
• Camel Beach Water Park with Pop-Pop
• Chase and I made a meat loaf
• We all made our own chocolate dessert cups with melted chips
• Went to Hibachi grill and caught shrimp in our mouths
• Handel’s Ice Cream, Dairy Queen, Rita’s Water Ice, Seven Stones Cafe dessert runs
• Started reading them a Jerry Spinelli chapter book that I realized could be a little too “mature” for them in the middle of chapter 4. Oops. They now know exactly what puberty is.
• Went to the neighborhood where I grew up and walked around
• Noah went to karate
• Chase made a replica of the Empire State Building with foam squares
• Shopped at 10,000 Villages, a free trade store in our little town

PS. The dog is still alive. Chase says he likes my cooking better because I use the oven instead of the grill. (For those of you who know what a gourmet cook Dave is, you know this was the highlight of my week.) I did not have to use my karate on any intruders (I was totally prepared to do so). I slept diagonally. I only had three two glasses of red wine because I wanted to not because I HAD to. And there is still beer in our garage refrigerator despite the fact that I accidentally left the garage door open all night Monday night.

I travel a lot for work; Dave has the logistics around my absences down to a science. I have the luxury of throwing science to the wind and decreeing his absence a big ol’ recess! Though I’ll be glad today when the teacher comes back. We need a little order around here. And someone to rub my toes against at night. And maybe some vegetables.