Lead Me Where

I spent a brief amount of time at my house yesterday, before the mother kindly drove me to the swim meet because it had been decided that my brother was more deserving of the vehicle than I. I was worthy of being abandoned at the pool and left to fend for myself and find a way home. Conveniently, the three other coaches drove together and were kind enough to return me to my home after the event ended.

So I was at my house for a bit last night, in between work and returning to school.

Ever a creature of habit, my quick blitzes passing through the home on my way to and from work always consist of the same things. I walk through the door, and my mother yells out that I take my shoes off. This is an ageless ritual that has occurred since we moved into our home in 1995, and if I sit quietly and still my soul, I can hear in my head the deep sigh of frustration she utters when one of her dearly beloved family members (generally my father, brother, or I) insist upon treading the clean wood hallways in our shoes. The deep irony of this situation is that the most common reason that my father traipses around in his shoes is that he is about to leave and has forgotten to kiss his wife. So she stands in the kitchen and exclaims over wet marks on her kitchen floor until he smooches her.

After having removed my shoes, which I do after a moment or two of entertainment experienced at the expense of my mother’s clean floors and sanity, I forage the kitchen for consumables. I say forage because this process does not always actually entail eating anything. Rather, I spend a couple minutes opening cupboards, drawers, fridge, freezer, and basking in the rich and figurative glow of healthy and plentiful food options. Praise God for the SDR here at school, which serves two purpose: nourish my body, and develop in me a deep appreciation for real food as it appears in the home setting.

I arrived home last night smack in the middle of the weekly Bible study that my parents host. Not one to interact or be pleasant or have friends in general, I burst into the door as quietly as possible and hightailed it to the kitchen. Once there, I greeted the small ones, who were tucked into my father’s desk chair, watching Sid the Science Kid, and then I began my forage.

Having opened and closed the fridge, freezer, and cabinets each six times, I prepared myself a small salad, as previously suggested by the mother, and then continued to open and close cabinets and drawers, just generally enjoying looking at food, while I ate. I pulled three tortilla chips, a yogurt drink, and a handful of popcorn out of their respective locations and had just chugged a glass of lemonade when my mother appeared in the kitchen. We chatted back and forth, as we do, and then she motioned towards a full pan of brownies, dusted beautifully with powdered sugar and sitting, ready to eat, on top of the oven.

You want a brownie? She asked, waving a butter knife for the purpose of serving in my direction.

I raised my eyebrows and shrugged indecisively. I’m not a huge brownie person.

I was hoping you could try one and tell me how they are; they’re pumpkin brownies. She added, before disappearing through the swinging door and rejoining her study. I finished my assorted dinner and then paused in front of the brownie pan. Pumpkin brownies, huh? Curiosity won out over my vague and underdeveloped brownie aversion, and I pried a corner piece out with the butter knife.

Except “pry” is in no way the correct word to use, because these brownies were the squishiest, most sponge-like dessert I have ever consumed. I’ve tried for minutes to come up with an appropriate word to communicate to you the texture of these brownies, but nothing comes to mind. Just believe me when I say squishy. Spongy. Soft. Bouncy. Springy. Moist. Odd.

While Sid the Science Kid squeaked on about force and “oomph” and how much fun it is to study scientific things, I ate that little brownie square. It didn’t taste anything like chocolate, and “slurped” might be a more accurate description that “ate”, but whatever. I ate it, and when my brother arrived home, I served him one, too. This was partially because I honestly wanted his opinion on this strange, although not necessarily bad concoction that my mother had created, and also because of my subconscious bitterness that he had the car instead of myself.

My father appeared in the kitchen shortly afterwards and the three of us stood around discussing the pumpkin brownies, while my brother’s shoes doubtless left gaping puddles all over the clean kitchen. We couldn’t quite make up our minds on what exactly we thought about the brownies; there was something very different, strange even, about the baked dessert, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. So we ate a little more, then I kissed the smalls goodbye, grabbed my bag, and my father kindly drove me back to school.

I went about my evening, and had very nearly forgotten about the squishy brownies, when I received a text from my mother at 12:15am. The words I read as I fell asleep? My goodnight message from the woman who gave me life?

Ha! No chocolate in THOSE brownies. It was pumpkin pudding. :)

Good night, mother.

~Natalia