Leftovers

I turn down the flame on the burner. The foaming hot pasta water has begun to run down the sides of the pot. I love the sizzling sounds of the water hitting the stove grates, but hate the white residue mess I will have to clean up later. Tonight’s tubular mostaccioli noodles need more time to cook than my usual angel hair strands.

I hear the crew moving about the house. I could complain that my house is thirty years old and needs a remodel, but I do not want to change the rhythm of the house. Definitely not today or in the next four years. Maybe never.

I balance produce from the fridge on top of the pre-packaged tub of greens. I like the ready-to-use lettuce assortment for the salad base. Its stringy and wide leaves provide more nutritional value than iceberg and even though it is more expensive, it saves me from buying three different individual bunches that will wilt before being eaten. I am not opposed to chopping and dicing. I like to save my knife skills for the colorful vegetables that amp up the vitamins – red peppers, tomatoes, carrots, radishes.  I plate the salads on pieces of my mom’s china. I learned from her that china is useless in a dining room cabinet.

I surmise the Youngest is in the loft gaming. Periodic silence followed by loud stomping and an occasional swear word confirms my suspicions. The Youngest and I agreed that swearing when gaming is the only acceptable time that curse words will be spoken in this house. I know he hates to lose and from what I understand, he rarely does. I only hope he can transfer his intensity and dedication from his daily game matches to his high school work sans the crude language.

The timer rings to remind me to check on the meatballs baking in the oven. The oven door squeaks as I lower it. Is it safe to use WD40 on the oven’s hinges? The perfect shape of the meatballs reminds me that I did not make them because if I did, “consistent” would not be a word I would use to describe them. Mine would look more like the various sizes of planets in the solar system. The meatballs need a few more minutes over the orange-red coils to satisfy my visual thermometer. 

Will the Youngest even eat them? I have forgotten whether or not he is a vegetarian this week.

Smooth jazz seeps through the door of the Middle’s bedroom.  The Middle considers herself the most cultured of the three. Her dad took her on a business trip to Europe two years ago and she returned, as she puts it, “refined.” She has a soul of someone much older than sixteen, but lacks the wise finesse that comes with age. She is purposefully picky with her food – thinks she should be able to drink wine and feels every meal should be a culinary fantasy. 

I am guessing tonight’s dinner will be a disappointment to her as the pasta is store bought and the jarred sauce, while doctored with fresh basil and oregano and a half teaspoon of cocoa powder, is not authentic even though the jar’s label says it’s made with Italian tomatoes.

The Oldest is pacing upstairs. I count his steps. Six steps to the right and five to the left. I wonder what happens to the missing left step. He will have to go further left at some point or he will run out of space in his room. He has been more anxious than usual this week since receiving an college acceptance letter. I thought this might calm him, but it has done the opposite. I worry about him the most since the divorce.

All of us received something from the divorce. I got the house, regular child support payments, and freedom from the ex’s uncreative excuses of why he was late or missed the kids’ soccer games.

The Youngest gained a regularly scheduled gaming playdate. Thursday’s at eight. If I know nothing else about the ex, I know I can count on him to show up for the Youngest either out of genuine care for his son or for his own love of video games. The Youngest doesn’t need to know the difference.

The Middle has a dad who seeks the good life as much as she does. He shares his real or imagined luxuries. He texts her restaurant reviews where celebrities are sighted and links to obscure songs to add to her eclectic collection.

The Oldest earned the opportunity to explore early manhood and the college selection process with me instead of his dad, who married his early twenty-something lover six weeks after the divorce was final. The newlyweds moved to California. My ex forgot to wish his namesake a happy birthday this year. The Oldest was dumped by his dad for a woman with dyed blonde hair, a manicured body, and a bankroll financed by her first and second husbands.

“We can afford any school you want so pick one and send me the bill,” my ex told the Oldest on one of his rare phone calls. “We have you covered.”

Covered. That is what I should have done to the sauce which is now erupting onto the stove and floor, much to the delight of the dog who thinks it is a game to lick the red splotches as fast as he can. Luckily the sauce has not yet burnt the bottom of the pot. My stirs surface crusted tomato flecks, but the bottom is smooth. I catch it before I give my daughter another reason to despise dinner.

I hear the house clatter growing louder which means at any minute one of the crew will yell “I’m hungry. Is dinner ready yet?” Rarely ever are my crew’s eyes bigger than their stomachs. “Healthy appetites and full hearts” their pediatrician would tell me when they were younger. I like to think that somewhere I helped develop their positive relationship with food and with each other.

I stage the table. Plates and utensils. Glasses half filled with water or milk. Trivets strategically arranged. I dig deep in a lower cabinet for a bread basket. I stopped at the bakery for crusty baguettes that I will let the crew tear into personal chunks. I place assorted dressings, cheeses, and olive oils in a row near the middle of the table so they are equidistant from each place setting. We are dippers and shakers and like a covering of flavor on whatever we eat. I grab a pile of extra napkins and add them to the center display. 

Looking at the full pasta bowl, I realize I cooked too much for me and the crew. I possibly made too much sauce even after its earlier selective elimination. Maybe I unconsciously do this because I like leftovers. The extra trips to the fridge warrant more activity in the house. And at least one of the crew will make a raucous trip through the house to sneak a bite after we all are in bed.

“Dinner 5 minutes,” I text the crew and await the thumps and thuds.

The Oldest moves first. I hear him step and stop. I imagine he looks in the mirror for a motivational chant or prayer to hide his worries from me before quickly opening the door to escape the demons that have multiplied since he returned home after school. His silent crisis is my pain.

I cannot guess who of the other two will be the next to move. 

I used to have to threaten the Youngest with the loss of gaming rights through a serious of multiple texts and visits to the loft. Lately though, he answers my calls more readily. I hear him yell “Oh Shit!” before he jumps twice in place. I wonder if his kingdom has been overthrown.  I know I should limit his screen time, but in our house today, the swear word boundary seems enough.

I do not hear the Middle move. Instead, I hear a text ping on my phone.

“Dad wants me to come to California during spring break. He will pay. Can I go?”

I think if it were only about the money, I could type three letters and the question would be answered. I reply with words about a deferred discussion later tonight. I envision her eyes rolling back in her head and her mouth letting out a huge sigh of frustration. I hear her door flash open, bouncing off the stopper and ending with a drawn-out squeal as the door finds its new resting place. Maybe WD40 will fix that too.

The cadence of three merges into a rhythm of one. My favorite sound before the evening meal. As if staged, the crew assembles together in a line, filling the arched entry way to the kitchen. With a sucker punch and hugs, they race to the table and scrape the chairs on the hardwood. I notice new scratches. I still have no desire to fix the floor boards.

The Youngest asks, “Could you please pass the noodles?”