The Midnight Panini King
Just as I’m falling asleep, book slipping from my slackening grip, I hear the sounds from the kitchen downstairs. A clatter, a slam. I raise my head, disoriented. But then I hear his voice. It is just my son, cooking at midnight again.
This strange pandemic summer, my children have turned feral. They have become nocturnal creatures, appearing groggy at the kitchen table in their pajamas at noon, eating eggs and cereal at lunchtime. I’ve given up on bedtimes; they’re 13 and 16 after all. Nearly every night, they outlast me, and I say goodnight and crawl into bed with the downstairs still ablaze with their light and activity.
And in the middle of the night, my 13-year-old son is learning to cook without me.
For years, cooking has been a passion of his. He would bring me a recipe, we’d gather the ingredients, and we’d work through the steps together. Every time, I tried to let him do it himself. I hovered, wincing, watching him struggle with the knife or the whisk. “Do you want some help?” I would hear myself saying, hand already reaching to take over.
“You have to let the pan get hot first,” I would tell my son, adjusting the heat on the stove. “Before you add the oil. That’ll keep it from sticking.” He would nod, distracted. I don’t think he was even listening.
