marzipan

I moaned and rolled off of the huge bed-like sectional that dominates my basement. Once my feet hit the floor I peeled my eyes open. Grey’s Anatomy was still playing on the TV. It was somewhere in season 9 and Meredith was worried about her baby coming out with three arms and a tail. I wouldn’t put it past Shonda. She loves to make Mer’s life hell.

I paused the show before I could get sucked in again. The growling in my stomach had woken me and it demanded to be taken care of. I started my sleepy journey to the upstairs kitchen. The only light on the main floor came from the TV. I laughed to myself. Like mother like daughter.

I opened the freezer. “Momma! Do we have any more peas?” For some reason, I have been craving vegetables at weird times. I think it’s because Chef Mike made vegetables with lunch and dinner, so I’m used to eating them all the time. Since I left the sorority house, I’ve been eating frozen pizza, Chinese takeout, and grilled cheese, which don’t exactly scream ‘green and healthy’. Thankfully, Mom replied to check the freezer.

I spotted the bag and dumped the contents into a bowl, where they landed with a huge thump. The peas were frozen together in a block of ice. At least I didn’t have to add water. I popped the bowl in the microwave and watched as it spun around slowly. My eyes glazed over. Five hours of sleep and a full day at state track had really taken a toll on my attention span. Not to mention that only the left side of my face is sunburned, kind of like Phantom of the Opera, but without the mask and the cape and the singing.

Finally, the beep of the microwave signaled my peas were hot and ready. After I threw on a pinch of salt, I grabbed a spoon and made my way to the couch. My mom shuffled around so I could sit, then put her feet in my lap. My dad used to rub my mom’s feet every night, but they’ve lived apart for more than a year. Sometimes I feel bad, but never bad enough to rub her feet. Sorry Mom.

I shoveled a spoonful of peas into my mouth, then looked down in confusion. “These aren’t peas?” I questioned my mom with a mouthful of unidentified vegetable. I took another huge bite, then tilted the bowl so she could see the contents. She squinted for a minute, waiting for her eyes to adjust to something other than the TV.

“You made soy beans.”

“Really?” I ate another spoonful, only then recognizing the taste of edamame. I shrugged internally. It wasn’t peas, but it was close enough. I turned my attention to the TV. She was watching Kid’s Baking Championship or Next Great Child Baker or something like that.

“This ten year old kid just made marzipan that looked like bacon.”

“Why?” I asked. Lately, I sounded like a toddler that never got out of her question asking phase. I was moody and I questioned everything she said. I didn’t know why I had an attitude, but I couldn’t stop using ‘that tone’. Something about living at home again was bringing out the worst in me.

“It’s for the desert imposter challenge.” The girl did make an impressive BLT out of desserts. She made a cake bread, marzipan bacon, white chocolate lettuce, and painted strawberry tomatoes. I would’ve eaten it.

We watched the entire rest of the season, which happened to go until 3am. We both teared up when Peggy got cut, and we both cheered when Rebecca won with her three-tiered beach cake. It was an emotional rollercoaster, just like the cake Matthew lost with, but we learned a very important lesson: it’s pretty embarrassing that I can’t tell peas from soybeans at twenty years old.

And that’s how I got drafted for some good old fashioned mother daughter cooking lessons. I’ll let you know how many kitchen fires it takes to get me off the hook.

Screen Shot 2016-05-23 at 1.00.37 AM

I had to google how to spell marzipan and I’m still not sure what it is. don’t tell me that google image told you anything. for all we know, it could be a bowl of fruit or a loaf of undercooked bread. 

 

 

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