I remember long ago, when Malcolm was a newborn, a friend saying “OMG, in 13 years, you’re going to have 3 teenage boys!  I can just picture them all swarming into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge, raiding your food supply, leaving carnage in their wake.”

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. 

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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. 

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