Bossy Spark: This Kitchen Ain't Big Enough...

This Kitchen Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us

My mother and I have created a rule for our kitchen: if one of us is in there preparing a meal, the other must keep out. It’s because of conversations like these, which happened when I was twelve, but also just last week.

I open a new package of Organic Girl romaine hearts and almost tear the first leaf when I hear, “Did you wash that lettuce?”

“No, it says it’s been washed three times on the box.”

“You still need to wash it again. Here, like this.” I let her wash the leaves, “showing” me how. “Be sure to get all the dirt off the veins and off the bottom. Now, tear off the bottoms.”

“Why do we need to be sure to clean the bottoms if we’re just going to tear them off?”

“That’s how you clean lettuce.” She watches me complete the task. “Now take the tomato, wash it, and cut it across the top.”

“I like to cut it down so you don’t get so many seeds and slimy stuff.”

“But that’s not how you cut a tomato. You do it this way,” she says, taking the knife from me. While she cuts it her way, she eyes me with the second tomato. “Why are you peeling off the skin?”

“Because I don’t like it.”

“The skin is where all the nutrients are, you need the skin. Stop peeling it off and just eat it.” We throw the lettuce and tomato and carrots into the salad. “Throw in some croutons—not too many—and some of these baby carrots. Stop breaking them in half, you can bite into them. They look prettier when they’re whole. Now, pour some salad dressing into some ramekins.”

“Why not just dress the salad with the salad dressing?” I thought it was self-explanatory.

“Because, smart ass, you consume less calories this way. Just dip your fork into the dressing and then into your salad. It’s much healthier. Clean up the kitchen as you go, too. Put the leftover tomato back in the tomato container, put the baby carrots back in the vegetable crisper, put the lettuce back on the top shelf, put the salad dressing back in the door. No, the lettuce goes on the shelf, not in the vegetable crisper.”

“But it’s a vegetable.”

“That’s not where I keep it. There’s no room in the vegetable crisper for all our vegetables. Now flip over the pork chops before they burn. No, don’t use that spatula, use this one.”

“Why? It does the same thing.”

“That metal one will scrape the teflon off the pan. Besides, I always use this one. It’s the best for flipping. So flip it like this, not like that, and it won’t splatter on you or go over the side of the pan. Now, turn on the oven to four-twenty-five for the garlic bread.”

“Why not just broil it? That way the underside of the bread is still soft.”

“Garlic bread is supposed to be crispy all around. Put the bread in there and set the timer for two minutes. Set the table, three plates, salad bowls on the left, utensils on the right with the knife closest to the plate and the fork on the outside. Use the little forks, not the big ones. Put them and the knives on top of a napkin, but fold the napkin in half first. I know you don’t use napkins, but just humor me. And don’t get the dishes out of the cabinet, get them out of the dishwasher.”

“Oh my god, Mom, they’re both clean.”

“But this way I don’t have to unload and reload the dishwasher so many times. Now everyone can serve themselves, you don’t have to load the plates. We’re all capable of walking five feet to the counter and getting our own.”

After a few minutes of eating, I’m quiet, irritated.

My mom can’t stand silence. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re such a control-freak.”

There’s an aggravated sigh, mirroring my own emotions at the moment. “I just know the best way to do things. I’m twice your age, I have more experience. This is also my house and you’re my child—“

“Mom. I’m thirty.”

“But you’re always going to be my child.”

She says other things at this point, but I tune her out, both for my mental health and so I don’t say anything to escalate the situation. Thankfully, with my ADD, I lose interest in things like this quickly. Convinced that she’s gotten the last word, she continues eating her meal and making random observations or telling stories with 4,793 details that are not pertinent to her point.

After dinner, I try to help by cleaning up.

“No, don’t put the dishes in the dishwasher like that, put them all facing the right so that—“

I throw up my hands and walk out.