In an effort to get Mr. Happy to stay away from junk food and also to pass the time while we’re waiting because otherwise all I do is work and all he does is lay in his bed listening to music, I’m teaching him to cook. Go ahead, take as much time as you need to absorb that statement. I know, believe me, I know, how ridiculous that is. I have, maybe, four things I can make that taste ok and that no one, at least not to my knowledge, has ever died from. They all revolve around chicken, chop meat, chicken, salmon, chicken, several canned and boxed items, and more chicken, but if I can get him comfortable with seven nights worth of dinners before I finally, please God, get to go home in June, I’ll be happy.
And so will Frank Perdue.
Mr. Rugby, as I’ve mentioned, doesn’t eat junk food and, if he does, it’s pretty rare. He treats his body like a temple, which I enjoy teasing him about but, as I’ve also mentioned, am in awe of. Because he’s lived on his own for a while now, in New Zealand and New York, San Clemente, and Houston and probably several other places I can’t recall as I simply can’t keep up with him, he’s a pretty good cook.
His favorite meal is salmon with a side of rice and spinach. Funnily enough, it’s also Mr. Happy’s favorite meal. So, in the interest of boosting Mr. Happy’s dinner repertoire, it’s the first thing I show him how to make.
You know how people say you should cook with love? I cook with anxiety.
A dash of salt, a quarter cup of anxiety.
A sprinkle of lemon juice, a good, soaking spray of anxiety.
It’s my signature.
I had the sense to remind myself not to get anxious the night of the great salmon making with Mr. Happy. I also had the sense to remind myself not to jump in! and take over! Like my Type A personality tends to do even if and when I do suck at something. Instead, I stood there, giving orders. Something I’m also pretty good at having perfected it as the big sister to three younger brothers which worked beautifully right up until the moment they realized they were taller than me.
But I digress.
You’re going to need the Pyrex glass dish pan thing under the stove, I said.
Like the one that blew up the night you let it get too hot? he smirked.
Yes, wiseass, that one. Actually, the new one, I replied. And you’ll need the tinfoil. And turn on the stove.
Wait, mom! You’re confusing me!
I sipped my wine. You didn’t really think I’d undertake this endeavor without Mommy’s Calming Juice, did you?
Sorry. Let’s take it from the top, shall we? Turn the stove on to 350.
He does so and looks at me. Ok.
Now, get out the new Pyrex glass dish pan thing.
And put tinfoil in it, right?
Right!
I spray it now, right? he says. I nod. This is going well! I’m not shaking and the new Pyrex glass dish pan thing hasn’t exploded. Progress.
Where’s the Pam? he says, rifling through the cabinet. The regular Pam? This is the olive oil Pam. I don’t like the olive oil Pam!
I start in the direction of the cabinet and stop myself. No. He’s got to find it. And if he can’t find it, he has to suck it up and deal. Keep looking, I say. It might be in the–
Found it!
Fucking A. Crisis averted.
He sprays the regular Pam on the tinfoil, going back and forth with such force it looks like big fat rain drenched freeway lanes lining the pan. Will our arteries clog? Who cares? He’s cooking!
Now you–
I know, mom, he says, getting the salmon from the fridge, rinsing each piece under cold water, patting them dry and placing them in the pan.
Oh my God. He’s been watching me. Paying attention. I’m blown away. He remembered! Damn, I’m a great mom. What a great example I’ve set! Oh yeah, box seats in Heaven, baby! But wait. Why is he just looking at me? He did great. I’m… Oh.
Maybe I should tell him.
Nice work, sweetheart! You remembered! I say.
I’m autistic mom, he replies. Not stupid.
I, on the other hand, am very stupid.
20 minutes, right? he asks, putting the Pyrex glass dish pan thing in the oven.
Yep. We’ll give it 15 and then start the spinach. Do you remember how to make the spinach? I ask.
He thinks for a moment, then, Small frying pan, a little olive oil, some salt, let it heat up, and then I add the spinach.
Perfect, I reply. And then, But don’t forget–
To rinse off the spinach. I know mom, he says in his usual Mr. Happy monotone accompanied by the head tilt he does when he’s exasperated with me.
And get it good and dry, I add.
He rolls his eyes. Yes, mom.
I hate it when it’s all wet and it goes in wet or damp and then I just feel like I’ve killed it before it’s even had a fighting chance to taste good, you know? I say. Wouldn’t it be cool if we could just, like, run it through the dryer first? Right? How cool would–
Mom! he says, cutting me off. How is it I’m on the spectrum and you’re not? You’re nuts!
Ok, ok. No dryer! I reply, laughing.
He, on the other hand, is not laughing. I’ve got the spinach and the salmon, ok? You just peel the little tops off the little bowls of rice and stick ‘em in the microwave, ok? Can you handle that? he says, speaking to me slowly, like I’m five or I don’t speak English or maybe both.
I nod yes and sip my Mommy’s Calming Juice. I really do feel calm. He’s doing great! This little lesson’s gone well, I think. I also think I’ve learned more than he has. I love that he doesn’t cook with anxiety.
I’m going to have to try that sometime.
Thank you for taking this long, strange trip with me. I appreciate you and your many comments and emails. If you’d like to read parts 1-45, you can do so here, and if you know someone who’d enjoy this newsletter please feel free to share it!
You had me smiling through this entire story….😊