Too Many Cooks
When he reached for the chocolate syrup I knew the food was wasted. In a bold, unapproved and non-sanctioned act of independence and innovation he was creating his own sandwich. He was also unsupervised.
It had started as a peanut butter and jelly. A classic. Or maybe it was a turkey and Havarti on wheat. Very seasonal. It's hard to know which came first. One was the chicken and one the egg and between them lay mystery and hope. The hope was for chocolate syrup.
I nixed it. Cue the tears.
I'm sure if he had given it any thought he would have realized that I was saving him. Then again, could chocolate really hurt a peanut butter, jelly, turkey and cheese sandwich? Could anything?
It turned into a full-blown breakdown. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe he was too ambitious. We both said things we regretted. Things get ugly in the kitchen.
He ate his Spagettios with a frown and a spoon- each tiny 'o' short for oppression. It tasted of tyranny, from a can.
Later that day he sat at the table decorating a small cake that he had baked with his mother. It was a beautiful mess. A masterpiece. Frosting is his medium.
He looked up as he felt my presence, his face still stained orange from his meal of resentment, but in the corner of his smile there was a twinkle. A hope. It was the shadow of chocolate remembered and the promise of more to come.
"Do you want some cake, Daddy?" he asked.
I shook my head, kissed him on his and went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. It left much to be desired.