Friends, let me warn those of you who do not have a 17 year old, 200 pound, 5'10 young man in your home. Guard your refrigerators. For that matter, guard your pantry, your cabinets and your extra stock out in the garage. My goodness!
You know me pretty well, so you likely know that I don't really call myself a friend of cooking. It's a chore that I could easily dispense with. I've, in fact, developed quite the ability to stall in the evening, busying myself with all kinds of activities, such that the Hub naturally spills in the kitchen and takes action. It works for me about 70% of the time. The other 30% I have to suck it up and be a big girl and make something for the fam to eat. Usually on these days, I prepare my mind in advance and make plans to be responsible that evening.
Last night was just such a night. The Hub was doing his favorite activity - landscaping. I jumped in the kitchen and no surprise, had three darling shadows under my armpits through the entire process. Now, Soccer Chick has gotten quite mature these last few months so she takes on more of a babysitter, big sister kind of role to her siblings. She seems to have jumped to my side of the fence and stares at her siblings as if she has to be the problem solver for these pesky situations that tend to arise. With all three noses in my cooking scene business I did my best to make a pasta dish with sauteed chicken tenders topped with stewed tomatoes and vegetables on the side. Friends, it was actually pretty good. I never said I was a bad cook. I just don't like to cook. Big difference.
The Hub was eyebrows deep in cutting the grass and declined to join the meal. Fine with us, as he was literally dripping with sweat when he popped by the window to say hello. So the 5 of us sit down to eat. I watch Oldest load his plate. I did say it was pasta right? Huge helping of pasta with the chicken and he mysteriously didn't notice the vegetables. As I am preparing my plate I notice he is finishing his first plate. On to the second helping. People, by the time we got to the third plate I was feeling stuffed for him. Granted, he is at football camp for 3 hours each day this week. AND, lest the coaches think these boys are slacking, they have workouts 2 hours in the evening each day as well. Knowing all this, it was still amazing to see him sit at the table and eat three large plates of pasta and chicken in one sitting. As he ventured for the fourth, I had to put the brakes on and fix his father a plate to set aside!
Somehow there was enough left over to put in a tupperware container and grace the threshold of the fridge. Hub tells me this morning that after all the house was still and quiet, Oldest creeped to the kitchen once per hour for a span of about four hours to finish off my dear pasta and make pb&j sandwiches to hold him until morning. Folks, we're going through a loaf of bread a day these days.
Consider yourself warned parents. If you have a son you can expect to be fridge-poor between the ages of about 12 and 18. You may get a slight reprieve if he leaves home for college or independent living. Yet, somehow I believe that when that day arrives for us, his appetite won't be that far away. I'm certain that he will make up for it when he comes home. In the meantime, those of you who are taking pity on the remaining Copelands, fighting for scrapes, I'll be sure to send you the address where food donations can be mailed or dropped off.
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