I watched the dog trot shyly down the hallway as I imagined her scampering through our sun-dappled house with the Sunday paper in her teeth. The three of us were left alone while Lois went to locate her history and vet records for a little background. I sat in one corner with a bag of treats and held them lovingly toward her. Kirsten sat in another corner with a different type of treat, shaking the bag gently in her direction. Tractor looked from one of us to the other, then back again, and did nothing. I scooted closer from my corner, Kirsten scooted closer from her corner, and ol’ Hog Oiler retreated farther into her corner.
“If I wanted to be rejected, I would just get another evil cat,” I said, and pouted.
We sat there for what felt like ages, cooing and singing and trying to coax Pitchfork out of her shell. Kirsten rewrote her thesis while I did the last four years of my taxes, and still … nada. Lois eased the door open and slid through a crack so the dog couldn’t take off running. Why she was concerned about an animal that had basically wallpapered herself to the farthest wall making a mad dash toward the exit was beyond me, but I guess you can never be too careful. Lil’ Wheat Chaff had come from dubious origins, and no one was quite sure of her age or how many babies she’d had or whether or not she liked jazz. The one thing they did know was that she “doesn’t really warm up to people and has noise sensitivity.”
“Aw, shit,” I grumbled, packing up the copy of The Iliad I had read in its entirety while we were trapped in the padded dog room. “They should’ve told us that from the jump. No thanks, Corn Stalk!” Kirsten shushed me and motioned for me to take my coat back off. “What does that mean exactly?” she asked.
Lois explained to us that dogs like Cotton Gin would be best served in a house where people make little to no noise, and didn’t try to engage with her too much at first. But, seriously, no noise. Like, no loud music and no shouting and no turning the television up because your ears are bad and no accidentally dropping anything on the floor. Girl, what? We have a drum set in our basement! “Goodness, I used to have a dog just like that,” Lois sighed, scanning her paper. “I couldn’t even put dishes in the sink without him flipping out!” Kirsten looked at me in disbelief and I smugly put my jacket back on like, BITCH, I TOLD YA. At this point, the dog gathered up her hobo bindle and headed back to the sanctity of her cage. Satisfied with having at least tried, and heaving an internal sigh of relief at having dodged a bullet, I decided to make a big donation that could maybe cover a pair of noise-canceling headphones for my would-be dog daughter. But wait a second, hadn’t we walked by a cat room?
I felt a cloud of cold air envelop me as Lois led us into the darkened kitty sanctuary. I could hear Helen’s deadly groan of disapproval in my ear, and I knew immediately that I was making the right decision. Am I really going to schedule my entire life around the scatological needs of a creature who will chew through all my fancy toys? Will I really have to pretend to care about notes the dog walker leaves, or worse, will I really have to spend my red wine and magazine money on a dog walker?! What if the back of my CR-V was filled with dirty Chuckits and chewed-up Nerf toys and filthy rubber balls? Picture me flinging a frisbee into a lukewarm lake full of dead fish, then actually standing there while waiting for a sandy, muddy dog to bring it back to me! That cat room smelled like my future, like damp pine litter and tuna casserole and the moldy inside of an L.L.Bean moccasin, and I walked directly to a large cage housing a tiny tortoiseshell kitten who was scaling the bars with her razor-sharp claws, face pressed hard against them as she strained to grab for my finger. “If you take me home, I will end you,” she whispered, as a bright spot of blood appeared on my fingertip. “Lois, I’ve found my soul mate. Ring her up!”
Jackie Brown came home and immediately claimed a dark corner in an upstairs closet as her own. She is not nice. She is not sweet. She hates my fucking guts. She is full of kinetic energy and skitters across the slippery floors, crashing into shit because she can’t pump her little brakes in time to stop. She prefers to sleep in a vent in the basement and emerges several times a day sleep-drunk with giant dust bunnies hanging from her whiskers. We’ve had her almost a year, and she hasn’t gained an ounce, weighing in at a mighty five pounds at her last checkup, which the doctor said is fine. I believe it to be further evidence that she is demonic and doesn’t require food to live. She sits at the window in the sunroom all day chattering the avian equivalent of Parseltongue to the birds. She stares without blinking for minutes at a time. She refuses to be in any room I’m in. She only purrs when she’s knocking something fragile off a high shelf. She sleeps during the afternoon, then gets up after dinner and spends all night breaking things. She’s a menace and a scourge and she is going to spend the next ten years minimum ruining my life. But that’s fine, because at least she’s not a fucking dog.
detachment parenting
I jump away from children the way most people jump back from a hot stove. I don’t dislike them. As a matter of fact, a lot of them are funny and smart and tuned in to all the cultural shit I don’t know, and are usually more than willing to very slowly explain things to me as I nod and take notes. I didn’t know what a TikTok was until a ten-year-old explained it to me, and I’m guessing that shit is already obsolete, which is why I didn’t even bother embarrassing myself by downloading it. The power that young people have is amazing, because neither I nor ANYONE I HAVE EVER MET has reached that mythical age at which you “stop caring about things.” Here’s a tip: it does not exist! Most of us are barely concealing our desperation to understand exactly what the fuck these young people are talking about. Not because I want to participate, but just in case there’s some sort of entrance exam for cool olds.
I’m forty now, and the hilarious thing about being forty is this: I don’t know anything. Before you try to convince me otherwise or try to make me feel better, you should know that I know that you’re forty and trying to reassure yourself that you know something. You don’t! Here’s a word problem one of my lady’s kids brought home the other night:
The ratio of two numbers is 5 to 1. The sum is 18.
What are the two numbers?
I’m sorry, what? First of all, am I dumb? Don’t answer that. Did I ever, at any point in my miserable existence, learn how to solve this problem? The kid, a girl, didn’t even ask me to help; I just happened to glance down over her shoulder as I was walking by huffing a marker and making paper airplanes out of all my letters from the IRS, then walked right into the wall because I was so confounded by her homework. Is she a fucking wizard? My lady’s other kid, a boy, had to write a paper on an ancient Chinese dynasty! Excuse me?? He was sitting at the dining room table casually shuffling through pages of meticulous research, and, okay, was I actually in some kind of remedial program or are these kids straight up SAVANTS?
I’m terrified to be at home alone with these children. I have a lot of basic knowledge and have committed thousands of random facts to memory: Did you know that an individual blood cell takes about sixty seconds to make a complete circuit of the body? Maybe if a fire started in the kitchen, and I made it to the fire extinguisher before the flames had a chance to set my cheap, flammable clothing ablaze, I might be able to put it out, but I don’t know a lot of useful child information. I was home a few weeks ago during the day when they had friends over (remind me to rent an apartment) and the neighbor’s kid looked up from his homework and asked me if I knew who the thirty-third president was. I thought we were playing that game where someone knows the answer to the question they’re asking because it’s right there in the book they just happen to be reading, so like a dummy I said, “No! Who?!” as if I knew and was just playing along. And then we just sat there blinking at each other like idiots until I realized he was waiting for me to come up with the answer and help him pass the fucking GRE. Dude, why are you asking me that shit? Wouldn’t you rather learn which household cleaners you aren’t supposed to mix with bleach? Please ask me something about a television show!!!!!!!!
&nb
sp; Here are some things I could teach a kid:
maybe thirty-eight states on a blank US map
how to mute mean tweets
not to mix wine and Norco
how to file a tax extension
who’s who on Game of Thrones (sort of)
the best hangover remedy (Drink more. JK! Drink a Coke and walk around the block.)
Forest Whitaker’s filmography
how many forks each person needs on the table
which cat litter to buy (Feline Pine)
the best Instagram accounts to follow
how loud to scream if the cat catches a bird and tries to bring it inside.
which candle scents are good, for ~ambiance~
the benefits of an Epsom salt foot soak
how to turn your laptop, iPad, and television into a picture-in-picture-in-picture situation
how to play spades
how to avoid making an unwise tattoo decision (just make it, who cares!)
where to eat in Chicago (Maude’s!)
fantasy football draft mistakes
how to make a frittata
health-food-store snack hacks
codeswitching
where to find the best compression socks on sale
how to make fake phone calls to get out of public interactions
not to stick a fork in the sink disposal
clean your air-conditioner filter
how to google a meme
that if you just make a new e-mail, you can get multiple discount codes when shopping online
that beets are gross
how to avoid people you hate
that making toast in a frying pan is the only acceptable way to make toast
how to write a personal check
the lost art of ironing
Is that enough? Don’t you also need—I don’t know—a strong character and moral center in order to guide a child through life? These two children in my house are not my children, so I’m off the hook I guess, but y’all know my luck is bad. One day, they are inevitably going to ask me what they should study in college, or who not to invite to the slumber party, or when to open a Roth IRA, and then: WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? I have not lived the kind of life worth emulating! I didn’t have the kind of childhood I can look back on and draw wisdom from. I had bad parents! Sometimes my lady and I will be sitting side by side in bed in our matching Vermont Country Store nightgowns like we’re in a sitcom. She’s rubbing lotion onto her hands (every woman who ever goes to bed on television is always thoroughly lotioning—what the fuck?) while I peer over my reading glasses and frown at the newspaper (again, TV executives, who reads the fucking paper at night?), and she’ll set her alarm and casually ask, “Hey, what would you do if [insert totally normal naughty child behavior that a black child with a black mom would never get away with]?” Now, most times in situations like these, I would just fake my own death and pretend to rise like Lazarus the next morning, but sometimes I’ll set the old USA Today aside and say, “Have you ever thought about digging your long, red press-on nails into the tender fat on the back of their upper arm while threatening their life under your breath?”
See? That is how I was raised! Once I threw a fit in the Barbie aisle at Toys“R”Us because I wanted a new doll and my mom said no. I howled and screamed and rolled on the floor, drawing a bunch of unwanted attention to us like I’d seen some other kid doing in the past. My mother calmly picked me up from the floor, patiently led me by the hand outside, then RAN ME OVER WITH HER FUCKING CAR. A tantrum? In this economy??? My mom and dad didn’t know shit, and I turned out fine (just kidding, there are still vegetables I haven’t heard of!), and I’m okay to sit quietly in the corner playing Fruit Ninja or buying these kids nuggets at the drive-thru for the duration of their teen years, but even that is setting a terrible example.
*
I’m a good cook, but the thing about cooking meals for children is that sometimes sophisticated ingredients and techniques are wasted on them, and as a person who expects an entire parade after taking the time to BRAISE! A! MEAT!, I knew I was going to have to adjust my expectations and practices. Listen, it’s not like I would otherwise be making consommé every night, but I have been known to attempt my own pad thai, and those are not hours that should be spent on a second grader. Maybe, if I was a chef. But I write a blog. It’s not even a fucking food blog. I write about sadness! So I decided to arm myself with a bunch of kid-friendly meals so that I might convince my lady’s children to like me, or at least convince them to tolerate me enough not to delete my saved shows from the DVR. I grew up poor, so I know all about those meals where your daily servings of grain, protein, and vegetables are all mixed together in the same murky chicken water. On that note, here is my recipe for a wholesome Midwestern casserole called “Cheeseburger Macaroni.”
CHEESEBURGER MACARONI
Step one: I’m going to let you know that, to start, a lot of these ingredients should already be in your cabinets. Did you know that children eat all the time? My memory of eating as a kid is that, sure, it was constant, but it was also secretive, shame-filled, and carbohydrate-based. My lady is not a “box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Crème Pies from the dollar store in your pajama drawer” kind of mom, which means that every available surface in our tiny kitchen is piled with food, but it’s also the kind of food that I never want to eat. It’s all shit that has to be prepared. Even the snacks! Even if you were trying to have a healthy snack! Even if you wanted to come home and fill your belly with nutritious carrots and a legume spread of some kind, first you’d have to find the organic reusable produce bag with the purple carrots from the co-op, and wash them with the fruit wash before trimming the tops off. Then you’d have to root around in the tool drawer for a peeler—she frowns upon those delicious pre-peeled baby carrot nubs—and then go take off your shoes and lie down, because all you wanted was something to stress-eat over the garbage, and now it’s a goddamn production. Sometimes I think to myself, “What do I miss about my old life?” And you know what? It’s not hot dates or anonymous doggy-style sex. It’s refined carbohydrates. It’s mouth sex with a cookie I didn’t have to bake.
Gather these items:
1/2 stick unsalted butter
2 red bell peppers, diced
1 yellow onion, diced
2 tablespoons of minced garlic FROM A JAR (why torture yourself?)
1 tablespoon kosher salt, plus more to taste
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon paprika
3/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste (okay, listen, never measure this)
2 tablespoons tomato paste from a tube
1 pound lean ground beef (or turkey? textured vegetable product?)
1 pound elbow macaroni
1/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 cups whole milk (kids go through so much milk and it is truly revolting!)
1 15-ounce can crushed tomatoes (with the juice)
1 cup chicken broth (or veggie, if that’s your thing)
3 cups (about 8 ounces) shredded sharp cheddar cheese (from a bag—are you kidding?)
Step two: I like to watch old episodes of Top Chef while I chop vegetables because—now, hear me out here—it takes the pressure off and lowers my expectations. There’s no way for me to watch master technicians balancing microgreens on a spoon with tweezers and also worry that my tater-tot hot dish is somehow not going to turn out right. Oh, I’m sorry, did I not tourné this zucchini you spit all over the floor? Should I have prepared a chiffonade to go atop your Annie’s mac and cheese? Do you need a coulis for your Go-Gurt?! Man, fuck that. You’re gonna get these jagged chunks of slightly undercooked potato and this ice-encrusted frozen corn, and maybe you’ll hate it, but you’re also only going to eat three mouse bites, so I’m not stressed. You don’t like my chickpea patties? Fine! I’ve seen you eat a popsicle with bugs on it! Who cares?!
Salt a pot of water and bring to a boil over high heat. Heat the oven to
400°F. While that’s working, melt the butter over medium heat in a Dutch oven, then add the peppers, onion, garlic, some salt, oregano, paprika, and a few grinds of pepper, and cook, stirring occasionally, for seven to ten minutes. Add the tomato paste, stir to combine, and cook for one minute. Add the meat, season with salt and pepper, and cook for about five minutes. Break up the meat while it cooks. Cook your pasta in the pot of boiling salted water until it’s still chewy and underdone, usually a few minutes less than the package directions suggest. Drain the pasta and rinse with cold water. This sounds like a lot of work, but I promise you can do all this at the same time. If I can, you can. I mean, I have to take two Aleve before I stand in the kitchen for even ten minutes, but this I can suffer through.
Step three: Okay, so, when I was growing up, if my mom ever went to this much trouble (she usually did not), then there definitely wasn’t going to be an extra THING on the table. She wasn’t going to snap a bunch of green beans or roast a squash to serve with it; this shit has all the food groups in one bowl and that’s what you get or you can go to bed. Well, I don’t live in that kind of house now. I live in a “we ordered a pizza but I also made a fresh herb salad and roasted some brussels sprouts and shallots to go with it, and since I had a little extra time, I also made a loaf of bread and whipped up a fruit tart including homemade pastry cream” house. That ain’t me. I like to leave the car running outside Chipotle, not prepare supplemental foods to accompany carryout! “What kind of shit is this?” I asked the first time a leafy watercress home salad was gently placed next to my Popeyes Spicy Chicken Sandwich. My lady handed me a bottle of home dressing, which, for the uninitiated, is something people who grow up in loving families that put limits on the TV make. “It’s cute you think I’m going to eat this unsalted vinegar spray on this bowl of damp lawn clippings you’re trying to serve me but, no, ma’am, I will not.”
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