Last night, as I was frittering away my valuable time not-writing in the kitchen, my son Genius demanded that I make him a baloney sandwich. Never mind that I was in the midst of preparing the evening meal, busily chopping onions, slicing tomatoes, shaking shredded lettuce and shredded cheddar from their respective bags, and intermittently opening the oven door to prolong cooking time. Genius did not want to partake of the splendid repast that would imminently be placed before him.
I questioned his tactics over my shoulder. "What do you think this is, some kind of short-order-cook kitchen, where you can get anything you want, any time you want?"
Genius responded with the lightning reflexes inherent to sixteen-year-old boys. "No. It's more like a short-temper cook kind of kitchen."
Before you go thinking he's a natural for the stand-up comedy circuit, cutting down hecklers with his rapier wit like Michael Douglas slicing through the Colombian jungle in Romancing the Stone, consider this. I offered Genius some spaghetti left over from the previous day. Nope. Not good enough for him. The reason?
"I don't like it after it's been eaten once."