Bread in a Baggie

Arrgh.  Another snow day.  The streets are a dangerous mess and joy o’ joy -- no school.  I suspect many would cherish a day of quality time with their snowbound child,  but at our house it never seems to work that way.   So, I creep into Ryan’s room at 5:15am and turn off his alarm.  I look over at this young man-boy and it rolls through my mind that he has no idea it has snowed and no idea that school has been canceled.  If sleeping ever became an Olympic event, then Ryan would be a national star. 

I wonder how long to let him sleep.  He is going to be pissed that there is no school.  I could use the word “upset”, but you might not grasp the correct level of upset-ness.  Way beyond grumpy, moving past disappointed,  and just this side of RoyallyRiled.  Yep, I’m sticking with pissed.  This kid loves school.  He misses his friends and teachers when he doesn’t get to go.  And he banks on his routine.  An off –schedule Ryan takes a few minutes to re-calibrate.

So, I flip on the lights at 9am and tell him to come get some breakfast.  His words don’t disappoint my prediction; I seek retreat in the kitchen and leave him be.  He enters soon thereafter, deposits his sleepy butt in a chair, gives me that look that only a teenager can generate, and flips on the TV.  I expect more Disney.  Actually I was hoping for a little Phineas & Ferb, but lately he has been on this Food Network kick.  We get Bobby Flay the BBQ boy.

He doesn’t move; not to take his morning whiz (go figure), not to eat any breakfast, not Nothing.  I say again, “Ryan if you want something to eat, go fix it”.  All I get in return is,  “I hate snow!”.  The next three hours are rather quiet as I type bids at the computer and  Ryan  watches the rotating display of chefs work their kitchen magic.   As I look back, I confess that I mis-read what was happening.  I was convinced that he was being a big grumpy lump; determined to do nothing, eat nothing, hear nothing.  He showed every sign of being successful.

Then he moves.  He pops out of his chair, spins the tv towards the stove, and starts unloading the refrigerator.  His vision of the sandwich of the century begins to take shape.  He chops onions like Bobby, he nukes a little bacon like Paula, he splashes the EVOO like Rachel (what an evil thing to do a defenseless sandwich, and it only gets worse), slices the turkey breast like the Contessa, and he stuffs his bread in a baggie and beats it with a tenderizer hammer like… uh….well…. like.  Dang it, I don’t know where he got such a notion, but the bread got flattened just the same.  He invites everybody to the condiment party; mustard, ketchup, sour cream, and of course salsa (hot sauce to you Tejas folk), smothers it in salt and pepper and sits down for his feast. 

Just for KicksAndGrins I sit down across from him to watch him eat the Creation.  He seems to be contemplating  the myth that “if a little is good; a whole lot more must be better”.   I excuse myself while he continues to pretend to enjoy his gooey mess of a sandwich and as soon as I leave the room I hear the squeak of the trashcan lid and the flump of the Creation hitting bottom.  The poor little sandwich had breathed its last breath and is now in BFI heaven. Oh, and I go upstairs out of earshot and laugh until it hurts.  Best snow day ever.

Flash forward to this morning. Ryan’s alarm goes off at 5:30am.  He gets up on his own, gets dressed, and heads for the kitchen.  And after 3 weeks of helping me make his WW Friendly Breakfast, he does it by himself.  Nukes his pre—cooked slice of bacon. Toasts his low-cal English Muffin and smudges on the fake butter spread. Sprinkles on some 2% cheese, scrambles an egg for the middle, and pours a glass of skim milk.   I don’t know what the TV chefs would say, but I say that Chef Ryan made a perfect sandwich.  And without a baggie.