Thermometer

Three sharp pings alerted Emily that the oven had completed its preheating cycle. Donning two protective potholders, she inserted a large tray of muenster cheese-topped chicken breasts and an equally large tray of thoroughly seasoned Brussels sprouts. Two blood orange Le Creuset pots began to bubble on the stovetop, prompting the sous chef to slightly turn down the heat. With her left hand, Emily thoroughly folded the truffle-buttered mashed potatoes with a heart-shaped wooden spoon while her right hand unraveled the frozen slab of spinach with a three-pronged silver fork.

Knowing her grandmother’s recipe by heart, Emily had no problem commandeering the kitchen while her glossy-eyed mother set the dining room table for four. Hyperfocused on folding the smoothest mashed potatoes the world had ever seen, she was able to tune out her mother’s soft sniffling as well as the heavy footfalls of her food-driven older brother stampeding down the carpeted staircase.

“Mom seriously let you cook again?” Tyler said from the kitchen’s threshold, thinking twice about entering.

Emily whipped her scrunched face around and stuck out her tongue. It was the alternative to sticking out her middle finger, which she terribly wanted to do, considering she learned the rude yet effective gesture from her brother. But she stuck with the tongue, knowing if either of her parents caught her giving her brother the finger, she would surely miss out on an epic night of Matilda and chocolate chip cookies. Her parents were tough on cursing and fiercely taught the duty to respect everyone, especially family, and she had seen her brother get punished enough times to know what was at stake.

Stepping towards the refrigerator, Tyler scolded his younger sister. “Try not to undercook the chicken this time. My stomach still hasn't recovered from last week.”

Ignoring the annoying command, she held up her right hand, showing off the new thermometer their father purchased after Tyler’s minor encounter with her undercooked chicken. Deep down she felt horrible for making her brother sick and embarrassed for not fully cooking the breasts of poultry, but a small percentage of her felt that his suffering was retribution for the years of older sibling hazing she had received. Luckily, neither of her parents had a chance to eat her undercooked chicken due to Tyler’s inability to wait for everyone to be seated at the dinner table.

“Just make sure you use it this time,” Tyler said.

Emily turned around with lightning speed, her heart-shaped wooden spatula raised over her head, and chased Tyler out of the room. Stumbling over his slippery socked feet, spilling his seltzer over his shirt and floor, he ran for his life. Stubbing his toe on the doorframe, Tyler cried out in pain.

“Fuck!”

Shocked by the rebellious use of the king of curse words, Emily froze in excitement and hid her wooden weapon behind her back. She knew her brother had crossed the line and was about to get berated and grounded for a very long time. A slightly evil smile broke out across her face, and she waited for the show to begin.

Knowing his unfortunate fate, Tyler didn’t stop hobbling until he reached the sliding door in the living room. Pulling the glass open, he stepped out onto the orange leaf-infested deck and slid the heavy door closed behind him.

Needing to put as much distance as possible between himself and his father, Tyler leapt down the four steps nailed into the rear of the stained deck. Doing his best to land on the heels of his feet, he was able to inflict minimal impact pressure on his stubbed toe. Hearing the glass door slide open on the squeaky runner, he covertly disappeared into the heavily foliaged woods sleeping on the outskirts of their backyard.

Giggling at her brother’s silly attempt to escape into the fenced-in woodland, Emily stood between the threshold of the living room and the deck while she nibbled at the solidified blob of melted cheese on the tip of her wooden spatula.

Her father’s voice startled her and stowed her probing tongue from licking the cheese. “Where’s your brother going?”

“He’s running away from you and Mom.”

Sighing and shaking his head, Ron answered while accompanying his daughter between the sliding doors, using his hand to lift Emily’s so he too could taste the melted cheese. “What did he do now?”

Shocked at his question, Emily quickly realized that his parents had no idea that Tyler had sworn. He had stubbed for no reason and was now hiding in a leaf pile, probably being crawled on by spiders, ticks, crickets, ants, and mosquitos. Realizing that her brother was inflicting his own version of self-punishment was more pleasing than any punishment their parents would administer. So she stayed quiet.

“Dad, that's enough!” Emily said, doing her best to yank the spatula away from her father’s mouth. “There’s no cheese left!”

“There’s a little bit left,” Ron said, now holding the spatula with two hands and using his tongue to lick the little remaining chunks of cheese as well as Emily’s fingers. She yelped and laughed at her father’s weirdness and allowed him to take the entire spatula. Grossed out, she wiped her fingers off on her father’s shirt. Adding to his weirdness, he began barking and play-growling like a dog. It was something he did with her when she was a baby, and he insisted that it was still funny and that she loved it when he did it. Unfortunately for Emily, it has now become embarrassing. But she was too kind to tell her dad that. So she played along.

“How’s dinner coming along, pumpkin? The entire house smells like a five-star Italian restaurant.”

“It smells like Grandma’s.” Emily said, poking her index finger into her father’s slightly jiggly belly. “And it's almost ready. The chicken needed a few more minutes.”

“She would be proud of you, pumpkin. She always saw and believed in your cooking skills.”

The sentiment made Emily’s eyes burn with a mixture of emotional memories of past moments and of moments never to come. She also questioned her father's usage of the word "pumpkin." It was a comforting nickname he used to use whenever she was sick as a young child. Having a vibrant head of golden-red hair also made it an appropriate nickname. But Emily wasn’t sick. Her mind tumbled with thoughts and questions. Saved by the pinging of her chicken timer, she jumped past her father and ran into the kitchen.

Grabbing the thermometer in one hand and donning a mitten potholder on the other, Emily opened the oven door and carefully removed the tray of sizzling chicken from the middle rack. Resting the scorching slab of aluminum on top of the stove’s cast iron burner grates, she stuck the needlepoint of the new thermometer into the center of each piece of chicken. Registering one hundred and thirty-five degrees and slightly rising for each piece, she gave herself a mental fist bump and pat on the back for maintaining a successful cook.

“Almost there,” Emily mumbled to herself.

“How can I help?” Her dad said as he stood in the kitchen door, rolling up the blue sleeves of his button-down shirt.

“You can start on the sauce.”

“Heard, chef.”

Ron’s accurate usage of restaurant lingo made Emily laugh and feel like she was on one of those Food Network cooking competitions. She wasn’t quite sure she could beat Bobby Flay just yet, but her father always claimed that she would wipe the floor with him.

While Ron whisked together a variety of oils, vinegars, salt, pepper, paprika, mustard powder, garlic salt, and oregano, Emily checked the temperature of the tray of vegetables on the top rack of the oven. Satisfied with their tenderness, she removed them, arranged them onto a smaller tray, and then inserted them into the French-door air fryer on top of the counter beside the oven and set a seven-minute timer. It was the best way to add a little crispiness to the veggies without overcooking them.

“Sauce is prepped and ready, Chef,” Ron said from the center island.

“Heard. Can you check on the mashed potatoes, please? They should just need a little extra fluffing with a fork.”

Ron placed the whisk down onto a folded napkin, then closed the distance to the stove with rapid footwork. “Behind.”

Standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, Emily and her father worked as head and sous chef on perfecting the mashed potatoes and spinach. Plunging the tip of his unwashed index finger into the warm, buttery, and fluffy center of the potatoes, Ron wiped the contents onto Emily’s cheek. Retribution for earlier.

Emily’s jaw dropped with annoyance. Not so much for her father rubbing potato onto her cheek but for the fact that he may ruin the dinner with his childish antics. It was during times like these that Emily thoughtfully wondered who was actually parenting whom.

Breaking away from her overstimulated seriousness and deep need to make the perfect family meal, Emily indulged her father and began dipping and smearing the warm potatoes onto her father's cheek and nose. Giggling and mess-making, Ron was able to temporarily distract himself from the melancholy eating away at his wife in the dining room.

Although a decent part of him felt as if he was abandoning his wife during a critical moment of emotional confusion, he knew how she processed information, and he knew how his internal computing software worked. She was better alone, and he was better facing the obstacle with childish behavior. It was an old trick he learned when he was Emily's age, which he believed helped make the bad not feel so sad. Betsey endured. Ron embraced.

Their moment of potato warfare ceased when Tyler tried to sneak his way back inside through the living room’s sliding door. The squeaky runner was unforgiving and screeched his presence throughout the entire lower portion of their two-floored family home.

Leaping from the small stool she was standing on to allow her a better vantage point to the top of the stove, Emily raced to see how dirty her brother was from hiding in the woods. She loved her brother very much and didn't like when he got into trouble, yet ever since he turned thirteen earlier in the year, he's turned into a real ass. A direct quote heard from the mouth of their mother. So she didn’t mind seeing him torture himself.

Frozen within Emily's gaze, Tyler quietly tried his best at some recon. Keeping his voice below a whisper, he mouthed his words as clearly as possible. “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

Doing nothing but smiling, Emily waited as she counted the approaching footsteps of both of their parents. Watching her brother’s facial expression morph in real time satisfied Emily more than cooking dinner. Especially considering he’s been extra assy lately. He was in serious need of a reality check.

“That’s a look,” Ron said, standing a few feet behind Emily with mashed potato still smeared across his face.

“So is that,” Betsey said as she stepped out of the dining room and approached her husband. “Why are you so dirty, Tyler?”

“Were you hunting the rabbits again?” Ron said, laughing at the inside joke while having his face wiped clean by his wife.

Confused at their pleasant and composed attitudes, Tyler almost incriminated himself. Luckily, he has a sister who will always watch his back and cut his confession short with a series of throat coughs and grunts, followed by a stern declaration.

“Dinner is served.”