As I count the dwindling days
until you depart for college, it has become apparent that
I have failed you. Miserably so.
Yes, you hold a high school
diploma. Your AP exam performance has earned you college credit. And your
grades and scores paved the way to substantial college scholarships. You remain, however, ill-prepared to leave home. And sadly, as is so often the case Chez Wiles,
the blame can be plunked squarely on my parental shoulders. I tried, but I plainly
didn’t try hard enough. Here are just a few lessons I have yet to successfully
impart:
How to replace toilet paper. In the few remaining days before freshmen
year begins, we will begin with this most basic of tasks. When I have shared my
knowledge with you, you’ll be able to replace a roll of toilet paper – without
prompting – in fewer than 60 seconds. Moreover, if I have done my job properly,
you’ll also install said toilet paper in the proper direction – with the paper
rolling over the top, and not from underneath. With this under your belt, next
summer’s class -- Replacing Paper Towels 201 -- should be a breeze.
How to turn off a light. This summer, I gave you 100% responsibility for
purchasing and changing all light bulbs here at home, in hopes that you’d
recognize the necessity and importance conserving energy and managing our
electric bills. At the very least, I thought you’d weary of constantly climbing
up and down the ladder. Silly me. Still, I will persevere. Indeed, once you’ve mastered this skill, you'll also learn how to determine – entirely on your own
and without parental eye-rolling– when any given light should be turned off. Even those dastardly
lights outside the house and in the pantry.
Load the dishwasher. Here, I must congratulate you, as you have nearly
mastered the task of returning dirty dishes to the kitchen. Now, though, I’m
going to push you further than you ever thought possible, beyond the limits
you’ve self-imposed, so you can get to the point of opening the dishwasher door
and then, accurately placing each dish so it can be properly cleaned during the
wash cycle. If this goes as well -- and I believe it can -- you’ll have the
opportunity to earn extra credit by operating the garbage disposal. Otherwise,
we can address that particular task next summer.
How to close a door. What does it say about me as a parent that I’d
assumed this lesson to be self-evident -- that he who “opens” would naturally –
even gladly -- take on the responsibility to “close.” And while I’ll grant that
the consequences of an open door are hardly on par with global warming, your inability
to properly close a door does lead to “local cooling,” as the air conditioning (for
which I pay handsomely) flows freely into the garage, the backyard and crawl
space. Similarly, the refrigerator door, when left ajar, contributes
unnecessarily to an already air-conditioned kitchen. Perhaps the difficulty of
this seemingly basic task lies in not understanding the needed action: Is it a push or a pull? Confounding, I know, but as you’ve noted many times this
summer, you are now 18 years old. As such, I have faith in your ability to
conquer this. With college beginning in 19 days, however, you must begin now.
How to manage email. I understand the issue here. Managing one’s email involves
a number of seemingly absurd steps, such as: 1) Checking your email, 2) Opening
your email, 3) Reading your email, and on occasion, 4) Responding to your email. When
you acquire this sadly outdated skill, it will work to my benefit, as I am your
most frequent email correspondent; however,
I must also note that your chosen university has announced its misguided,
but firm, intentions to notify you,
and only you, when tuition is due. Madness.
Moreover, they insist upon notifying you (and only you) by email. What evil is at work here? Do they not know how to text? Only
God, AT&T, and the Board of Regents know. Regardless, my darling Son, should
your college tuition email remain unopened, unread, and unpaid, you will resume your less than promising life as yard boy living
in the basement Chez Wiles. Surely, a person such as yourself, who can manage
and sift through tens of thousands of digital downloads and can instantly (through
means I do not wish to understand) procure virtually any television show or
movie ever produced, can manage his email on a daily basis. You can do this,
Son. I know you can.
How to cook.
This may be my most appalling failure. As recently as last week, you declared
that you didn’t know how to make a simple grilled cheese sandwich. Or a
quesadilla. Or nachos. You even stated that bacon is “too hard to make.” It was
a fork to my heart. So here, I share my "recipe" for grilled cheese. The key,
you’ll see, is to use good bread and good cheese. Be sure to cut all the
richness by serving with a pickle. And for bonus points, try cutting the
sandwich on the diagonal. It’s more photogenic that way.
As you can see, Son, I’m
here to help. Together, we can work through this, and you’ll be fine.
And God willing, I will be, as well.
xxx ooo
Mom
Grilled Cheese Sandwich
Two slices of "good" bread (You know full well what I mean -- either whole wheat or a hearty French or Italian loaf. I do not want to find that over-processed mushy white bread in your kitchen. Ever.)
Yummy slices of cheese (You prefer sharp cheddar, pepperjack, edam, fontina or provolone. There is no such thing as American "cheese." Only American cheese "product" or cheese "food." Which doesn't sound appetizing because it is not.)
Softened butter
Heat a non-stick skillet or griddle over medium heat. Spread one side of each slice of bread with softened butter. Assemble the sandwich by laying one slice of bread, butter side down, in the skillet. Top with one layer of sliced cheese, and then, the remaining slice of bread, with the butter side facing out. Cook slowly in the skillet until golden brown (may take 6-10 minutes). Flip carefully, and cook remaining side until golden brown. Slice diagonally, serve with a pickle, and thank Mom that you know how to cook.
No comments:
Post a Comment