The very hungry teenager

The teenager's conversation opener gets low marks for charm but 100 percent for consistency.

"Is there anything to eat?"

This is not a straightforward question.

Generally - and this is by no means an exhaustive list of criteria and exclusions - it means, Is there anything to eat straight from a box or bag or that has been fully prepped, plated and placed within arm's length of wherever I plan to eat? 

We are driving home from water polo practice. It's a short drive, but it's a very long time to be in the car with a teenager.   

There is almost never a good answer. He is too hungry to think of anything but food yet inflexible in his definition of it.  

But today is a good day for teenage water polo players.  

"I made muffins," I say.

"What kind?" he asks cautiously.

"All kinds," I say. "Chocolate chip, blueberry, date-nut."

"How big are they?"  His hopes are building, but the adults in his life have disappointed him so many times. 

Regular size, I say. Not the mini ones. 

So far so good. But it's still early in his interrogation. 

"How many?" he asks. A chilling thought has just occurred to him. What if his sister is already home?  And not just his sister, but her entire posse of seventh grade eating machines? Those girls tear through a kitchen like locusts through a field of whatever it is that locusts eat. 

His panic rises like muffin batter in a 400-degree oven. "Is she home?" he says.  

"It's a double batch," I say. "Chill-ax."

Oh, god," he says. "She's home isn't she?" 

We are only a few blocks away, but I am starting to feel the pressure.

"Look, I don't know," I say. "I swear."  I should never have mentioned the muffins. Why did I have to mention the muffins?

"Was she there when you left?"  He is looking directly at me now. We are one minute from our front door. Oh god. Please let the light be green.

"I am through answering questions,"  I say.  "She may have been."

What was I thinking? Why didn't I separate the muffins into strictly demarcated stacks? His and Locusts?

"Just tell me," he says. "Was she eating muffins?"

"Stop," I say. "There is no possible way she can eat all of the muffins."  Even as I hear myself say it, it sounds ridiculous. She will take a bite out of half of them just trying to figure out which ones have chocolate chips.

I step on the accelerator a little bit.  "It's going to be okay," I say. But I don't believe it anymore.  I can smell a disaster in the making. It smells like blueberry muffins. 

Finally, we are in the driveway.  "Run," I say.

And he does.

Originally published 5/16/11 

More from the teenager archives: It's the least he can do, Teenage Wasteland

Comments

[Linda]

A cliffhanger based on muffins. Awesome.

I can only hope he got some because it will be all your fault for producing another child and raising her to be social.

[heidi]

Well???? Did he get any muffins?

[Suburban Kamikaze]

There were plenty of muffins. But would the milk hold out? It is a cliffhanger a day around here...

SK

[Maureen]

Your eerily accurate reflections of my own life give me both hope and comfort.

Other consistencies: "Can you take me to Subway?"

"Did you go to the grocery store today? I wanted snapple/microwave fettucini/lean pockets/flavor blasted goldfish/lunchables/...list of random prepackaged processed items which changes daily and extends on to infinity".

[jacqui]

I really hope he got some of the muffins.

And I hope you don't really, really hate getting awards because I have two of them for you over at my place.

[Suburban Kamikaze]

Is this because I can mix cocktails and do laundry at the same time? Will I need to buy a dress?

SK