A Learning Curve

I was lying on the ground. The sky was a vibrant blue, the sun a warm and inviting
yellow. It was mid-day; bees buzzed, flowers blossomed, birds chirped, and the symphony of
nature was in full force around me, but my eyes were elsewhere. At the other side of the flat
field was a girl of gorgeous stature; even from a distance I could tell it was my Katie Marshall.
The Katie Marshall who aced math tests, wrote long English papers and was still popular, not to
mention her striking figure and overwhelming beauty. She pranced around in the high grass. Her
sundress came spinning up as she twirled in circles, engulfed in her own world of happiness. I
stood up. She noticed me; her smile grew even wider than it was before. I broke into a dash,
desperately trying to reach my Katie Marshall. Music played in the background, we frolicked
toward one another like the lovers that we were. The music reached a climax; I was an arms
length away
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP
Sweetie! Wake up!
MOM REALLY? SHE WAS AN ARMS LENGTH AWAY!
Hon, its Thursday!
Mmmhmm.
You know what that means.
I can continue my afternoon-nap with no further interruption from my darling mother?
Its your turn to make dinner!
How does frozen Mac N Cheese sound?
Nope.
Ugh.
I bought stuff.
What stuff?
Come down here and check out the stuff for yourself.

Im working.
Sure.
I am.
Mmmhmmm.
Just tell me about the stuff.
Youre going to make spaghetti with meatballs, and Im not going to help.
Ugh.
You need to start soon if were going to eat today.
Im working.
I heard you snoring when I knocked.
I dont snore.
You snore as loud as your damn father, believe me I know how that sounds.
Im working now.
Working on dinner.
Working on work.
You talk in your sleep too.
I wasnt asleep.
Whos Katie Marshall?
MOM!
Thoroughly tired, dejected and embarrassed, I sat up.
Crack-Crack-Crack-Pop-Crack-Pop-Pop-Pop-Pop-Crack-Snap-Crack-Pop-Snap-Crack,
my joints sound like Rice-Krispies. The habit of cracking knuckles and popping my neck comes
from my dad; snoring and creaky joints, thats about all I got from my dad. Otherwise Im my
mother's spitting image; most kids cant recognize that.
Anyways, I got out of bed. Apparently a little too fast because my head started to spin
like it does when you first get up in the morning. I waited a moment, gathering myself. I glanced

left and came face to face with the small pile of papers sitting on my bedside desk. Its my
homework and its a small pile, but man, paper is thin and that little stack looked pretty
intimidating to me. I groaned. I really had to make dinner? Really?
Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump
Mom?
Its 6:15 and Im hungry, sweetie Cmon!
Im working on it.
It had been a month since mom had implemented the rule that everyone must cook once
a week. My day was Thursday. The first Thursday I made frozen Mac N Cheese. It was so easy,
but then my Mom told me it was time to make some real food. Please, Mac N Cheese is real
food but my mother held strong. She gave this big spiel about growing up and life skills and
being a good husband and crap. It was too much, like jeez Im fifteen, frozen Mac N Cheese will
do just fine. Anyways, I got a little cocky after the first week, thinking, eh this isnt THAT hard.
That confidence was short lived. Last week I nearly set the block ablaze trying to make fiery
Asian chicken; I got the fiery part right at least. Needless to say I wasnt exactly elated to be
back in the kitchen again.
I reluctantly came down the stairs. My mother and I had found some middle ground in
terms of difficulty of cooking. It wasnt frozen Mac N Cheese and it wasnt fiery Asian chicken. It
seemed like a decent compromise, my challenge for the day was spaghetti! It seemed easy
enough but boy was I nave.
I continued to complain to my mother as I put the water to boil, Please can you make it,
I have chemistry homework to do.
We have a deal. Manage your time better.
How come you never complain about cooking? This sucks.
Well, it gets easier with practice.
You sure? Its not the glass or two of wine you have whenever you cook?

HEY! Watch yourself. But yes, that helps too.

Can I have some wine?
No, its a school-night.
Does that mean I can have wine on a week-END?
No.
Ugh. I was reading the recipe for the spaghetti. Apparently I was making a salad and
some bread from a mix to go with the pasta.
I thought Id start with the bread. I took the pre-made dough out of the blue and silver
canister and plopped it onto one of those flat metal things. I pre-heated the oven to 400 and left
the dough alone for a while. I then poured some water into a pot for the pasta and set it to boil.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. The oven was pre-heated so I slid the dough into its jaws. SKLANG. As the
water boiled and the bread baked I decided to start on the salad.
I took out the lettuce, peppers, cherry tomatoes, onion and dressing and started to
prepare it. I was slicing and dicing around the kitchen and doing pretty well. My confidence
soared and I didnt even think about it as I turned my attention toward dicing the onion. I had
never cut an onion in my life. Of course Id heard the thing about how they make you cry but Id
never experienced it so I just casually started slicing it up. It didnt hurt at first, I just kept
chopping away; maybe this whole crying thing is an urban legend or something. And then my
eyes caught fire; fire like my fiery Asian chicken. Tears streamed down my face and I couldnt
handle it. I ran to the bathroom and before I washed my hands I started to rub my eyes. After
that it felt like blood was running down my cheeks. My eyes got so watery I could barely see for
the next several minutes. I howled and stumbled around in the bathroom trying to locate the
knob of the cold water. I found a knob; I threw my face under the rushing water, desperate to
cleanse myself of the onions evil juices. It was the hot water. I yelped and jumped back
smashing my head on the gold-painted faucet. PING. I fell to the floor. PLUNK. My mother
rushed in. SHIT!

I wasnt bleeding but my head was pounding. My mom helped me up and to the couch
and I sunk into it. On my way down I had hit my head on the floor, so I now had two oppositely
protruding bumps bubbling up from the sides of my head, a real life pin ball.
Are you okay?
Yeah, Ill be fine.
Here, Ill get an ice pack.
She came back with an ice pack and a glass of wine.
Do I get wine now?
You obviously cant cook with clear head, why would I give you wine?
Cause my head hurts.
Suck it up, honeybunch.
Ugh.
I wonder what Katie Marshall would think of this?
MOM!
I took an understandable break. The bumps receded a bit. I headed back into the
kitchen. The water was boiling and as I walked back towards the onion, I shielded my eyes this
time.
I smelled something burning. The bread! I opened the oven door, prepared for the worst.
And the worst is what I got; the charred black brick had caved in on itself and started to flake
away. Like when Lord Voldemort dies in the last Harry Potter and his skin starts peeling off and
floating away. Thats what my oven looked like. I told my mom.
You messed up the bread! C'mon babe, all you had to do was put the dough on the tray
and not forget about it.
My bad.
Im ordering a pizza. Im too hungry for this. You want some?
I may look battered and beaten but I will produce some serious spaghetti.

As much as I love you, Im ordering a pizza.

Now it was personal. I had to make that spaghetti. I started to fly around the kitchen
chopping peppers, tossing lettuce, stirring spaghetti, and making meatballs. I even figured out
how to use the timer on the oven to tell me when the bread would be done. Everything came to
fruition within a half hour. The spaghetti was done, the bread was perfect, and the salad was
complete spare one ingredient. The source of my heads agony and the death of a good loaf
bread lay in front of me: two and a half ounces of tear-inducing evil. The onion. I shifted around
the kitchen for a while weighing whether or not I really needed the onion in the salad. But this
wasnt about necessity; it was about pride and I wasnt about to let this little white devil get in the
way of my raging teenage ego. I couldnt figure out how to deal with it. I tried brute force; mono
y mono, me versus the onion with no protection, and I lost. I made about three cuts before my
eyes filled with water and pain. I tried finesse: I moved the onion and cutting board as far away
from myself as I could and I leaned away, but I couldnt get enough power to cut the onion. I
plopped myself back down on the couch next to my mom.
Oh! Dominos tracker says Joey will be here in two minutes with my pizza!
I popped up. I had to finish that onion before the pizza got here. An idea struck me;
outsmart the onion. I ran down to the basement, flying past small piles of my dirty socks and tshirts that had been neglected for weeks. I rushed around the corner and found my ski bag. I
rustled through the bag and found the orange tinted goggles. I hustled back up stairs, nearly
slipping on a dirty pair of shorts. The onion awaited me.
I threw on the goggles and went to work, hacking away at the crunchy little ball of pain. I
finished quickly and tossed the pieces into the salad. I grabbed a plate, filled it with spaghetti,
meatballs, bread and lastly some onion garnished salad. I went into the other room and sunk
into the couch just as Joey arrived with my mothers pizza.
She sat down next to me with a slice of piping hot pepperoni and said, Trade you, bite
for bite.

Sure.
I handed over my dish and dove into the pizza. She took a bite.
This is pretty good, hon!
Wasnt even that hard.
Good! That was the easy part.
Huh?
Have fun with the dishes, sweetheart.