After Hours
Doo doo dodododo doo doo.
My doorbell rang across the house in the early afternoon, about an hour after school got out, rousing me from my studies—or, more realistically, from a recent sketch. I looked up briefly, and then chose to ignore it. It was probably a solicitor anyway. The doorbell rang again as I tried to concentrate, then rang again, and pretty soon I noticed that the ringing had turned quick and repetitive. If they were trying to annoy me, they had succeeded.
I knew who was lurking outside. My friends had come to play.
This scene played out several times in the past. In one scene that kept repeating itself, I let Jenna and Sheli inside. I didn’t start my homework until much later, after much raiding of my fridge, especially the freezer. Jenna could routinely eat nearly 6 ice-cream sandwiches in one afternoon, with Sheli right behind but with less of the soul-devouring metabolism. The sounds of Sailor Moon defeating Queen Beryl of the Negaverse distracted me from figuring out the octet rule in chemistry.
One day, I just decided to disconnect the doorbell and hope that they would go away. They banged on the door for a good ten minutes and then tried to break into my house through the garage, letting the cat outside and knocking more than one thing to the ground in the process. I quickly learned my lesson.
“I say we make a cookie cake,” Jenna declared after determining that I indeed had all the ingredients necessary. Sheli agreed, and they went to work—the two girls seemed, at times, to know my kitchen better than I did. Sheli somehow had memorized the location of whisks, spatulas, and measuring cups; Jenna was taking down the mixing bowls and letting the butter soften… all this while I was still scrambling for the silverware and salt. The cookie cake was such a spectacular mess I could not help but admire it, with its burnt edges and a sagging middle of warm, uncooked cookie dough. Of course, Mom called it a waste of time and ingredients, but since I can still remember it fondly nearly three years later, she is probably very wrong.
“How are those cookies going?” Jenna asked as I brought up a spoonful of cookie dough to my mouth. She snatched a spatula covered in the stuff as I chomped down on the treat.
My reply came out something like, “Bleaguckeuuuuggghhh.” The wad of cookie dough dropped from my mouth, falling to the ground in a disgusting lump even the dog refused to touch. Jenna slowly lowered the spatula that had been about to go into her own mouth, staring at me in astonishment. It was the only time I had mixed up the sugar and salt, but to this day they won’t let me forget about it.
Too many memories are crammed into that kitchen. We spent a lot of time there, me trying to make my friends fat so that I might look better in comparison, Jenna and Sheli mooching to high heaven. Jenna’s the one who made the quite famous ‘duck cake.’ She had suddenly declared that she needed to make a birthday cake for her brother, but upon investigation of the ingredients in my fridge, we discovered we were lacking in eggs… Except, of course, the one large duck egg that a wild duck had laid in my father’s bushes. The next day, we couldn’t help but giggle hysterically as her brother and his friends dug into the slightly crumbly ‘duck cake.’ At least he was her least-favorite brother. Sheli’s Italian side kept resurfacing as she cooked various foods, not in the form of traditional family recipes, but with her trying to force-feed us ramen or potstickers as a way to show us her love. When I left for college, separated by at least four hours from either friend, the old jokes and memories came with me in the form of cookware and cell phone calls as I was making cookies.
“Hey, Dani… Are you sure it’s sugar?”
(c) Me, bitches.
My doorbell rang across the house in the early afternoon, about an hour after school got out, rousing me from my studies—or, more realistically, from a recent sketch. I looked up briefly, and then chose to ignore it. It was probably a solicitor anyway. The doorbell rang again as I tried to concentrate, then rang again, and pretty soon I noticed that the ringing had turned quick and repetitive. If they were trying to annoy me, they had succeeded.
I knew who was lurking outside. My friends had come to play.
This scene played out several times in the past. In one scene that kept repeating itself, I let Jenna and Sheli inside. I didn’t start my homework until much later, after much raiding of my fridge, especially the freezer. Jenna could routinely eat nearly 6 ice-cream sandwiches in one afternoon, with Sheli right behind but with less of the soul-devouring metabolism. The sounds of Sailor Moon defeating Queen Beryl of the Negaverse distracted me from figuring out the octet rule in chemistry.
One day, I just decided to disconnect the doorbell and hope that they would go away. They banged on the door for a good ten minutes and then tried to break into my house through the garage, letting the cat outside and knocking more than one thing to the ground in the process. I quickly learned my lesson.
“I say we make a cookie cake,” Jenna declared after determining that I indeed had all the ingredients necessary. Sheli agreed, and they went to work—the two girls seemed, at times, to know my kitchen better than I did. Sheli somehow had memorized the location of whisks, spatulas, and measuring cups; Jenna was taking down the mixing bowls and letting the butter soften… all this while I was still scrambling for the silverware and salt. The cookie cake was such a spectacular mess I could not help but admire it, with its burnt edges and a sagging middle of warm, uncooked cookie dough. Of course, Mom called it a waste of time and ingredients, but since I can still remember it fondly nearly three years later, she is probably very wrong.
“How are those cookies going?” Jenna asked as I brought up a spoonful of cookie dough to my mouth. She snatched a spatula covered in the stuff as I chomped down on the treat.
My reply came out something like, “Bleaguckeuuuuggghhh.” The wad of cookie dough dropped from my mouth, falling to the ground in a disgusting lump even the dog refused to touch. Jenna slowly lowered the spatula that had been about to go into her own mouth, staring at me in astonishment. It was the only time I had mixed up the sugar and salt, but to this day they won’t let me forget about it.
Too many memories are crammed into that kitchen. We spent a lot of time there, me trying to make my friends fat so that I might look better in comparison, Jenna and Sheli mooching to high heaven. Jenna’s the one who made the quite famous ‘duck cake.’ She had suddenly declared that she needed to make a birthday cake for her brother, but upon investigation of the ingredients in my fridge, we discovered we were lacking in eggs… Except, of course, the one large duck egg that a wild duck had laid in my father’s bushes. The next day, we couldn’t help but giggle hysterically as her brother and his friends dug into the slightly crumbly ‘duck cake.’ At least he was her least-favorite brother. Sheli’s Italian side kept resurfacing as she cooked various foods, not in the form of traditional family recipes, but with her trying to force-feed us ramen or potstickers as a way to show us her love. When I left for college, separated by at least four hours from either friend, the old jokes and memories came with me in the form of cookware and cell phone calls as I was making cookies.
“Hey, Dani… Are you sure it’s sugar?”
(c) Me, bitches.
posted by D. K. Smith | 8:56 PM
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