Curbside Turn Toward Me

My paternal grandmother had eight children.  Broods of this size were common among the generation that preceded her on both sides.  Eight’s a lot.  Just keeping em’ fed must have been a tireless slog.  My daughter had a party with seven guests this weekend.  I offered to cook and cook.  And this was no small task. 

My stepson and his girlfriend had come for the party and I made everyone breakfast at the outset.   Spuds, bacon, eggs, smoothie and then the clean up.  The kids arrive at my wife’s studio mid afternoon.  I consider the kitchen.  I’m already inside the kitchen rhythm, so I start in with the prep on the lasagna and the zucchini sticks.  My older one, the vegetarian doesn’t want cheese any more, so I make her some humus and falafel.  I prepare some garlic bread loaves to bake and roll up some meatballs and fry them.  I’ve used all the eggs and the older one who is on point to bake the cake for tonight insists on ovals. Got it.  Bike to the store and back.  It is now late afternoon.  I’ve literally spent the day in the kitchen.  I’ve got to head to this party. 

Biking along, Fela’s ‘Gentleman’ comes on.  Am I really ready for this?  Adjusting the volume to as loud as it will go, I consider the line of willow trees and villa walls before me.  I soar along with the majestic opening, considering Mr. Ransome Kuti and his indictment of western civilization, here in another civilization and I stare down the myriad of traffic dangers lurking before me at the crossroad and as the judgmental brass head of the song thunders in, I steer between the line of cars cutting right before me and avoid someone on a three wheeled delivery cart who has just decided to make an abrupt curbside turn towards me.

Before we can consider what a ‘gentleman’ wears, I have arrived and pause the proceedings.  There’s a lot of little girls.  Some of them I recognize and many I do not.  “String up the piñata!”  “Right.  Sure.  Let’s uh, we need some string.  What are all your names?  Wait, wait!  Make sure you don’t whack someone.  Be careful with the stick.  Yes, I’ll get bags or cups or something for the candy.”

Back home everything is in the oven.  Everyone is starving.  Every time I look in the oven it doesn’t appear to be cooking fast enough.  Eventually, times up and it's served, a bit under cooked perhaps but they weren’t waiting any longer.

As I come down the stairs the following morning I note the eight twelve year olds sleeping in the living room.  There’s a lot of cleaning still to be done in the kitchen.  And soon, I suppose I should get started on making breakfast for them all.