“Make your own,” she said, tossing her handbag on to the chair and pushing off her heels. God, she was tired. At the office all day and now three kids yelling “what’s for dinner?” She needed a glass of wine before she could even begin to think about dinner. She headed to the fridge and poured a generous white, taking it out to the back deck with the day’s mail. Why did she get so much mail at home? There was so much of it at the office. She groaned, a bit dramatically, and sipped her wine. There was still some daylight left, and in the mild evening she began to sort through utility bills, bank statements, symphony brochures, dental reminders, magazine subscriptions…
Back in the kitchen, thing were beginning to happen. Yes, trouble was brewing. “She said to make our own,” said the eleven year old. “But she probably didn’t mean it, “ said the thirteen year old. “I want to make my own!” wailed the nine year old. The three kids discussed the likelihood of their mother making them dinner once she’d finished her wine. “I think she’s too tired tonight,” said the eleven year old, “and we should help her by making our own.” “Well, I think we’ll get into trouble; we don’t know how to cook,” said the thirteen year old. “Speak for yourself – I know how to cook!” said Miss Eleven. “I want to make my own!” contributed Master Nine.
Madam Thirteen sniffed, took a peek out to the deck, where their mother was only half-way through her wine and seemed absorbed in her correspondence.
“We might starve if we don’t make our own,” said Miss Eleven. “I’m already starving!” said Master Nine.
The discussion turned to a possible menu. The fridge door was opened, the pantry contents contemplated. Miss Eleven led the way, and preparations began.
Their mother, meanwhile, had received a phone call from her sister – her brother-in-law had started drinking again – and she was engrossed in this for another twenty minutes. Finally, she rang off, gathered up the mail and her empty wine glass, and stepped back indoors. “I guess I better make some supper for us,” she thought wearily. She wandered into the kitchen to top up her wine. Chaos met her. Dishes, pans, butter, eggs, crumbs and peelings festooned her kitchen like Christmas decorations. “Kids!” she exploded. “WHAT the…?”
“We made our own!” came a chorus from the dining room. “And there’s some for you too, Mummy,” said Master Nine, eyes bright and excited. Astonished and laughing, the mother sat down with her children and shared their supper of Vegemite toast, pancakes, bananas and milkshakes. They had indeed made their own.