Kitchen Chaos (5 page)

Since we spent the afternoon working on our project—even if we never actually came up with a topic—I plop down on the couch and decide to reward myself with a half hour of TV before starting
on the rest of my homework. My favorite show of the moment comes on at five thirty, so I've only missed the beginning. It's a cooking show called
Antonio's Kitchen
, and the host is this really funny guy named Chef Antonio Garcia. Frankie says I'm a cooking show addict, and I guess it's true. I'm totally obsessed with them, and so is my mom. I like
Antonio's Kitchen
best because they tape the show right here in Brooklyn, and sometimes they even show Chef Antonio shopping for ingredients at the same stores my mom and I go to. Used to go to, I mean, before the Big D, a.k.a. my parents' divorce.

Today Chef Antonio is making roast chicken and potatoes, and it looks so good, I can almost smell it through the TV. The whole idea of the show is that you can make really amazing, delicious meals with basic, local ingredients that you can get right in your own neighborhood. Chef Antonio cooks all different types of food, but since he's Cuban, he likes to add a little bit of spice to everything. That's kind of the way
my mom cooks too (when she cooks, that is). She's from Atlanta, and she likes her food spicy. No matter how long it is between trips to the grocery store, there's always at least one bottle of hot sauce in the fridge at our own house.

Even though I pigged out at Lillian's, Chef Antonio's chicken is making me hungry. It's almost six, and my mom and Cole will be home soon, so I open our “dinner drawer” and start flipping through the stack of takeout menus. While I'm debating between Indian and Middle Eastern, a commercial at the end of the show catches my attention.
Antonio's Kitchen
is on our local PBS station, so there aren't usually commercials, but this one is an ad for a cooking class with Chef Antonio as the teacher.

“If you love our show,” Chef Antonio says as if he's talking directly to me, “then you'll go loco for my live, six-week cooking class right here in our studio!”

I drop the menus on the counter. I would
so
go loco for that class.

“This session's theme is American Cooking 101,” Chef tells me. “Over the course of six two-hour classes, we'll explore the vast array of cultures and cooking traditions that make up the melting pot we now think of as distinctly American cuisine. And as always, we'll put the
Antonio's Kitchen
spin on your favorite classic recipes, with fresh seasonal ingredients, a little imagination, and a whole lot of flavor.”

Just then I hear a key in the lock and, “Uppy me, Mama, uppy me!” I turn around to see the door swing open with my mom behind it, carrying bags over one arm and trying to pick up cranky Cole with the other. I rush over to take her briefcase from her, along with Cole's Curious George backpack and a bag of apples. My little brother is really sweet most of the time, but when he's tired and hungry, he's like a mini supervillain and it's best to just let my mom deal with him.

“What's for dinner, Lize?” my mom asks as she settles Cole into his high chair and grabs a hot dog
from the freezer. Hot dogs are Cole's favorite, so I try not to think about the article we read in health class about all of the disgusting things that are actually in them. At least the ones we have are organic, and to be honest, I like them too. My mom pops Cole's dinner into the microwave and looks up at the TV. Chef Antonio is slicing up his roast chicken while the credits roll on the bottom of the screen. “Mmm, now that looks good,” Mom says. “And so does he! Do you think he delivers?”

I laugh, even though I still don't like it when my mom makes comments about men who aren't my dad, and hand her the menus I'd been considering before the commercial distracted me. She spreads them out on the counter and studies them as she washes and peels an apple for Cole. My mom is a master multitasker. Seriously, she could teach courses in it. She can bathe Cole, help me with my homework, and polish her own toenails all at the same time.

We agree on Middle Eastern, and I call in our
order while my mom makes sure that at least some of Cole's dinner actually makes it into his mouth. (Don't ask me why, but my brother insists on mashing food into his hair whenever he can—his food, my food,
any
food.) A new show has started on TV, but it's not about cooking, so I turn it off.

“How was your day, Lize?” my mom asks as she scrubs practically Cole's entire head with a baby wipe. “Have you finished your homework?”

Before I can answer either of her questions, she's already halfway to Cole's room to get him ready for bed. I pull my math folder out of my backpack and try to make sense of tonight's worksheet. I've always been good at math, but this year it's pre-algebra and some of the problems just make my brain hurt.

I'm about halfway done when the doorbell rings, and suddenly, there's Cole, running down the hallway in his diaper yelling, “Dinner! Dinner!” He's right this time, but the really funny thing is that he says that every time the doorbell rings, no matter
what time of day it is. Sometimes Frankie picks me up on the way to school in the morning, and even when she rings the bell at seven forty-five a.m., Cole comes racing to the door, fully expecting to see the deliveryman waiting there with a big white bag.

My mom comes in, scoops up Cole, and tosses her purse at me. I pay the delivery guy and start setting out our food on the coffee table while Mom gets Cole settled in his crib and reads him a story. Our apartment does have an actual dining table, but we have this nightly ritual where we watch the cooking channel together and eat our dinner in front of the TV. I know, I know, kids do better in school and don't end up doing drugs when families sit down at the table for dinner. But so far I've never gotten below a B and I don't even know anyone who does drugs, so I don't think our mother-daughter TV dinners are going to mess me up too much.

By the time my mom has finished reading to Cole, I've arranged our meals on our plates like they
do in food magazines and I've poured us both iced tea in my favorite polka-dot glasses. When I turn on the TV, it's still on PBS and that same commercial for Chef Antonio's cooking class comes on again. I watch the ad a second time while my mom changes into sweatpants—she says whoever invented work clothes must have hated being comfortable.

Chef Antonio looks me in the eye and tells me every class will feel like a fiesta. I've never been to a fiesta, but even the word sounds fun. My mom plops herself down on the couch and glances at the TV. “A cooking class, huh? I used to love those,” she says as she unwraps the napkin around her plastic silverware. “But seriously, who has the time?” She digs in to her takeout shish kebab and takes a long sip of iced tea.

And just like that, I have an idea. An absolutely amazing, totally brilliant idea. I can't wait to tell Frankie about it.

My house is like Cirque du Soleil minus the talent and the really cool costumes. Four kids, two working parents, and one small, but very sloppy, slightly stinky dog create a recipe for major chaos. Of course I missed Liza's text last night and didn't see it until this morning. Why? Because my little brother Nicky swiped my phone and hid it in a tissue box in my room—his idea of a hilarious joke—where I never would have looked for it if I hadn't just sneezed myself awake.

Here's what Liza's text said:
I have a BIG idea. Call me.

Since I didn't read it until just now, I obviously didn't call Liza last night. Big idea? For what? Our project? It sounds even bigger than that.

I don't have time to think about it because Nicky runs in carrying a bottle of maple syrup and yelling something about waffles. As usual, Rocco is trotting along behind him, panting and drooling. Have I mentioned that it's 6:25 a.m.?

“Me and Rocco are hungry, Frankie.” Nicky's piercing voice drills directly into my ear and his dark curls tickle my cheek. “We want waffles! Where's Pop?”

Don't ask me why Nicky calls my dad “Pop.” It started when he was a baby and liked the Dr. Seuss book
Hop on Pop
, and it stuck. The rest of us call him “Dad,” although my older brothers, Leo and Joey (a.k.a. The Goons), call basically everyone “Yo.”

“Dad's sleeping,” I say. “You and Rocco will have to wait till later.”

My dad has been a firefighter for more than twenty years, which means he almost never has to work the night shift anymore. But everyone in his squad has to do an overnight at least sometimes, and last night was Dad's turn. On mornings like this he comes home around five and locks himself in the guest room in the basement (which is really more like the ground floor in old brownstone houses like ours). No one's supposed to bother him until after school, but Nicky usually forgets, so even though I'm totally annoyed that he's in my face, it's a good thing he came to bug me instead of Dad.

“I need waffles now, Frankie. We're starving.”

“Ask Mom,” I say, burrowing back into my pillow. “And both of you get your smelly paws off my bed.”

“No way!” Nicky shrieks, plopping himself down next to me on my bed. “Mom stinks at waffles. Remember before?”

Unfortunately, I do. The last time my mom tried to make waffles, she ended up melting all the
kitchen tools. It wasn't totally her fault—the jar of utensils fell on the open waffle iron after she'd plugged it in. But she was so focused on trying to “gently fold egg whites” into the lumpy batter that she didn't notice all the melting spatulas and spoons. How she missed the disgusting smell, I have no idea, but by the time she turned to pour the batter on the machine, the smoke alarm had gone off and we ended up having to leave the windows open for two days. In February.

“How about cereal?” I say. “Mom can make that.”

“Waffles, Frankie, waffles!” hollers Nicky, who's now jumping up and down on my bed.

“Aaargh!” I scream, pulling my pillow over my head. “Leave me alone!”

Of course, Nicky ignores me. “Waffles! Waffles! Waffles!” he yells, over and over, still jumping.

All the hollering gets Rocco excited, and he starts barking like crazy. That wakes up The Goons, who share a giant room right next to mine. They bang on
the wall with their big meaty fists and yell things like, “Shut up or I'll kill you!” It's a good thing we don't live in an apartment like Liza does, or our neighbors would totally have the police on speed dial.

Finally, Mom comes in to see what all the insanity is about. I don't know if Nicky notices her, but he keeps right on jumping and screaming like a maniac at the top of his lungs. My mom is dark-haired, and pretty, in a distracted sort of way, but right now she looks sleep-deprived and more than a bit crabby.

“Nicky!” my mom tries to yell above my brother's loud, annoying waffle chant. “Stop that jumping and use your inside voice immediately!”

My mom teaches second grade, and when she gets mad, she goes into teacher mode and says things like, “Use your inside voice” and “Keep your hands on your own body.” Sometimes she even claps—one, two, one-two-three—to get us to calm down. Joey, Leo, and I have to force ourselves not to crack up
when she does it, but since Nicky's in second grade, it usually works on him.

Nicky stops jumping on my bed, but instead of sitting down or stepping off, he leaps into the air and lands right on top of Mom. She obviously wasn't expecting her seven-year-old son to come flying into her arms, so the two of them crash onto the floor, freaking out Rocco and making him bark even louder. I just want to roll over in disgust and go back to bed, but that is
so
not happening.

The crash is enough to get The Goons out of bed, and they burst through the door demanding to know what
I
think
I'm
doing waking them up at this hour. When they stomp into my room, The Goons are like loud, massive, hairy boy monsters with major B.O. They are
so
annoying. They finally notice Mom thrashing around on the floor trying to get Nicky off her as he squeals like a hyena, but all they do is snort with laughter. They don't even bother to give her a hand.

As usual, it's my job to come to the rescue, and I'm
on my way to help my mom up when I feel the vibrations of slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs. Everyone else must have felt them too, because we all freeze, and suddenly, everyone is silent, even Rocco, who looks from one of us to the other wondering what's up.

Who's
up is the real question, and the answer is my dad. He's an easygoing, fun-loving guy most of the time, but when he's woken up early after a night on duty, watch out. At six foot two and two hundred pounds, Dad's a big guy. He spends his days saving people's lives and would never hurt a fly, but he can be seriously scary when he's mad.