Just Dessert

It never fails to surprise me when 6 o’clock rolls around and I remember that I should probably start making dinner for my family. “Oh, god, that old chestnut. Is it that time again already?” Every night, like clockwork, the people I live with expect to be fed, even though they’ve probably eaten twice already, that very same day. It’s a bit greedy, really, but we’ve all gotten into the habit of eating 3 meals a day, myself included. So I somehow manage to crank out a balanced meal most nights- notice I didn’t say delicious. But my dinners generally come out decent, even though I’d rather be doing pretty much anything else. Like sitting on the couch scrolling through instagram, for example, which is what I’m doing now, even though dinnertime is clearing its throat and tapping me on the shoulder. I reason that I’m trying to find some inspiration to cook as I spin through my feed. After all, Instagram is the bastion of all things inspirational- correct me if I’m wrong? 

Oh, well lookie here! An acquaintance has shared an inspirational series of photos of her 12 year old joyfully cooking the family an incredible dinner all by herself from scratch. Roast chicken and vegetables, biscuits and gravy. Puff pastries with custard and maple whipping cream for dessert. My tummy rumbles as I take in the beautifully arranged plates of food, and admittedly my eyes turn just a shade greener than they already are. That a 12 year old should crank out such a meal on a regular weekday night- preposterous! What is she trying to prove? I have heard tell that for some people, cooking is a pleasurable activity, as pleasurable even as eating? Seems suspect, but I recognize it takes all kinds to make the world go round. Almost nothing on earth could motivate me to make such a meal. Sure, I’ll go above and beyond on a beloved’s birthday or holiday, you know, buy a rotisserie chicken and roast some potatoes and whatnot. But basting a bird, and biscuits and puff pastries from scratch? No, no I don’t think so. 

Meanwhile, my own daughter is lolling around on the living room floor, claiming to be bored out of her mind. Struck by the lightning bolt of true inspiration, I casually suggest that if she’s so bored, she could try making dinner tonight. She sighs like the beleaguered 10 year old that she is, trudges grudgingly into the kitchen, and starts making a lot of potentially dinner-related noises, like pans clattering and water running. I’m astounded at how easy that was. After picking my jaw up off the floor, I lay back on the couch, kick my feet up, and bask in the afterglow of a request granted without me resorting to bribery. I’m not just surprised and delighted, I’m shocked and thrilled. My child is an absolute treasure in so many ways, but when it comes to housework, she’s rather reticent; you might even say infuriatingly intractable. She was never the kind of kid who played house or picked up the broom as a toddler to try to mimic me cleaning. I suspect that by age 2 she’d already decided housework was a racket and she was no sucker. Although I relish the fact that she doesn’t conform to gender roles or norms, I do hope she eventually cultivates some modicum of house pride, or at the very least basic house hygiene. I can’t read the future, but based on the state of her bedroom at present, when I imagine her future home, it’s a ramshackle farmhouse with piles of dirty dishes and stacks of paper everywhere, dustballs rolling through the living room in slow motion, at least 3 dogs, and possibly even a pig and/or goose cohabiting in the kitchen. I see clutter everywhere and nothing matching or making sense aesthetically. Based on her savant knowledge of the NFL and love of recliner chairs, I’ve often joked that she’s a grandpa trapped in the body of a young girl. The abode I’m imagining aligns with that. I see her neither caring about nor noticing the mess, but that’s also because she will be too absorbed in creating incredible advances in eco-architecture at her drafting table. I have to give her a worthy career in this futuristic fantasy, after painting her into such a grubby domestic corner. We’ve invested a LOT of money in Legos over the years, so a successful career in architecture would be a sort of poetic justice. But again, I don’t read the future, nor is the future set. She may read this when she’s 16 and think “F*ck that. I’m gonna show her and be a dream homemaker. EVERYTHING WILL BE TIDY & MATCHY MATCHY.” And then she could morph into her generation’s Martha Stewart or Joanna Gaines and she could get her own show on HGTV and have passive aggressive wood art on her wall that reads “Bless this Mess” even though there’s no mess to bless. Stranger things have happened. Boy, that would really show me. 

But moving swiftly back from the unknown future to the known present; a minute or so passes during which I hear more chaotic clattering from the kitchen. Then she calls out “Um… so can I make dessert instead?”

“Sure!” I capitulate cheerfully, so unconscionably grateful for any form of help at all in the kitchen. I’m just pleased as punch that she’s finally making an effort! I’ve already started imagining my suddenly enthused offspring taking the culinary torch and running with it, making dinner at least 3 nights a week. I start imagining what I’m going to do with all the free time in my evenings- learn a language, write a book, go jogging, chuckle at funny animal videos on social media… the possibilities are endless. 

But then moments later, “Ok, mom, I’m done. Can I go upstairs and play Minecraft?”

All those flights of fancy of newfound freedom freeze, shatter, and scatter around my feet like a detonated Lego palace. Done so soon, my little chef?

I walk into the kitchen with pretty high expectations for a mess and pretty low expectations for her dessert, and friends… she did not not disappoint. According to the Oxford Dictionary website, there is no established opposite to the word exceeded, but if there was, that’s what she does with my expectations. Because on the kitchen table sits a single banana: peeled, sliced unevenly, and placed in a small bowl. Presumably, this is for our family of four to share and enjoy for dessert tonight. The peel is draped casually next to the bowl, reminiscent of the towels I find discarded on the bathroom floor.

Now I’m aware that there are truly famished families who would be grateful to share a banana. But by my overfed American standards, a quarter of a banana does not dessert make. I will say, though, that I am perversely impressed by the way she managed to limbo under the bar of mediocrity with room to spare. It’s not like I was expecting a Princess cake straight off The Great British Baking Show, but I was hoping for… oh I don’t know… just something more than a sliced banana, I guess. Especially after getting all rumbly tummied looking at puff pastry and custard. I wouldn’t want to throw around a hurtful word like “underachiever,” especially considering that I’m something of an underachiever myself. But can I be blamed for calling her effort a magnificent example of “underachievement?” 

A magnificent underachievement. Now there’s a contradictio in terminus if ever I heard it. You know what, though? I’m gonna take a moment to just focus on the “magnificent” part of that oxymoron. I’m all about flipping the script. Let’s give that thoroughly disinterested 10 year old- who is presently playing Minecraft in her room without a single thought to any of this- the benefit of the doubt. How can I spin it in her favor? I’m a fan of pradipakshabhavana, the Sanskrit term for turning that frown upside down, as described in Patanjali’s yoga sutras- obviously I’m paraphrasing. Granted, people may use this idea to bury their heads in the sand, or spiritually bypass or straight up vomit toxic positivity, but for the sake of argument I’m gonna try it. 

Maybe, just maybe, I’d feel less discouraged by my kid’s wanton disregard for culinary and domestic excellence if I were to reframe- nay, rebrand- her “efforts.” Instead of a paltry bowl of banana, let’s say that it’s a communally-oriented potassium-rich minimalist dessert, efficiently engineered by an anarchistic and artful young Gemini. If she were to design some overly simple eco-packaging made from her upcycled schoolwork, and label it BANA-NAH, it could probably sell for $11.50 a pop in trendy health food stores across most blue states. And voila! Through the lens of pradipakshabhavana, her contribution to dinner wasn’t simply lousy, it was lousy with potential! While I’m in a rebranding state of mind, I’m just gonna go ahead and rebrand this whole experience. Because I almost let myself be disappointed. I can easily go into a shame spiral about what this means about me, about my parenting, how I don’t hold strong boundaries, how I don’t model ambition or accomplishment and how I’ve unwittingly made her indifferent and lazy and spoiled. How my apathy is a curse I’ve passed through my mother’s milk on to my beloved child for whom I wish the world but for whom I have done diddly squat to model worldly success. I can make it mean that because I didn’t bake with her enough as a toddler, she’s destined for failure and it’ll be all my fault that she ends up living in a basement and shooting up in the alley behind Gail’s Nightclub. Then I’ll really get my just desserts for letting her make just dessert. 

But I’m not gonna make it mean any of that. I fully trust that my kid’s unique gifts will continue to reveal themselves, especially if I can encourage rather than disparage her efforts, however minimal…ist. I’m gonna see this bowl of banana as a great start to dinner, and a great start to the rest of our lives. And that isn’t toxic positivity, it’s just next level pradipakshabhavana- it’s PradipakshaBANANA.