Lessons from a Rude Boy

Training a Chef

The boys kicked off their shoes just inside the door, so I followed suit as they disappeared, leaving me alone in the living room. It was cozy, blankets strung across the couch, pillows piled high, video games scattered in front of the tv.

            "Sorry about the house," Mason's voice interrupted my snooping.

            "What?" I turned to see him watching me.

            "It's kinda a mess, but between last night and today I haven't really had time to pick up," I laughed.

            "It's okay Mason," I turned back to see the pictures on the wall, "it looks lived in." As opposed to my house, which looks like a museum. The couches looked soft and inviting where my couches looked contemporary, expensive, and not at all inviting rather they looked like they were too good for you to sit on.

            "Lived in," he chuckled coming to my side, "I like that. I'm going to use it next time mom is telling me the place needs to be cleaned."

            I laughed, but otherwise ignored his comment I was to busy staring up at the photos hanging on the wall, yet another thing my house was missing; we only had one picture of us and it was hand painted hanging above the fire place.

            "You have a beautiful family," I smiled over at him, but he was looking at the picture. "Mason?"

            "Huh?" he shook his head and then smiled at me. "Sorry, zoned out. You hungry?"

            "Famished," I answered.

            "Alright well come into the kitchen and I will make us something to eat," he didn't wait for an answer, he just grabbed my hand in his and pulled me along. His hand was warm against mine as we walked into the kitchen, Colby eyeing us.

            "Alright," Mason let me go and clapped his hands loudly, "what would you like to eat?" he turned away from us to rummage in the refrigerator.

            "Nothing you are going to make," Colby wrinkled his nose at me, "Mason can't cook anything but hot dogs and soup."

            "At least it's not hot dog soup," Mason grumbled, "ungrateful little punk."

            "How about I make dinner?" I offered.

            "You don't have to do that," Mason said over his shoulder.

            "Come on," I pulled him away from the appliance and pushed him down into a chair next to his brother. "It's the least I can do. You bought me lunch today."

            "It was a hot dog," he laughed.

            "Don't argue with me," I narrowed my eyes slightly, "or I will sick Colby on you."

            "Okay," he held his hands up. "You can make dinner."

            "Good," I turned back to the refrigerator, "now please get me two pots and a skillet."

            "I thought you were cooking?" Mason asked from the table.

            "I am," I shot him a glare, "but I am also going to teach you how to make chicken parmesan. Now get up."

            "Yes ma'am," he saluted me.

            Colby had his head propped up watching us, boredom evident in his cute little face. "Hey Colbster I need your help too," I called over to him.