I cooked this for you

The pot gets weightier as the water level rises. I turn off the tap, set the pot on the stove, place the lid on top, turn the knob to ‘light’. Click-click-fwump the flame’s lit. The black iron frying pan’s heavy, I carry it to the sink, scrub out the remains of yesterday’s lunch, set it back on the range top, click the burner on, pour oil into the pan.

“What are you doing Daddy?”

“Cooking dinner, sweetie.” I kiss her forehead. I open the fridge, pull out the cheddar block and the butter in one hand, the milk in the other, elbow the door closed.

“What are you making for dinner?”

I set everything on the counter in front of our microwave; this maybe two square feet is all of our usable countertop.

“Macaroni and cheese.”

I set the cutting board on the stove and pick up the chef’s knife I got as a gift years ago. I cut the wax paper wrapping on the butter at the two table spoon line, drop the greasy cube into the pan.

“Good.”

I walk to the pantry. The door squeaks when I pull it open; I pause to listen for the baby waking up. Silence. Good news. Bag of flour and bag of noodles in hand I shut the door, walk back to the countertop.

“Daddy.”

“Yes?”

“Can I help?”

I set the plastic bags down. “Sure! Thanks for asking.” I pick her up, hug her. Her hair smells vaguely floral. “Did you take a bath today?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so, you smell like a flower.”

“Mama washed my hair,” she scowls.

“You didn’t like that?”

“No.”

“That sounds frustrating. But you smell like a flower.”

I pull open a drawer, fish out a black plastic measuring spoon from the jumble of pizza cutter, potato masher, white plastic measuring cups, drinking straws and so on. I set my daughter on a chair and squat so my face is at her level.

“Here,” I hand her the measuring spoon, “will you measure the flour?”

“Yes.”

“The pan is hot and the butter is fizzly, I don’t want you to get burned so you measure it and I’ll drop it in, okay?”

“Can I watch you drop it in?”

“Yes. But stand back okay? I got some cooking oil popped on my face when I was little, just one drop, it hurt like a bee sting or a cat scratch and I cried a lot. I don’t want you to get burned by the hot butter.”

“Okay.”

I hold up the bag of flour. “Go ahead and fill up the spoon.” She dips the spoon in, pulls it out heaped. I level it off, dumping the excess back into the bag. I take the spoon from her, dump the flour into the butter, turn back to her. “One more.” I hand her the spoon again, she refills it, levels it off herself. “Good job doing that!” She smiles. I take the spoon, dump it in the pan.

“Let me see.” I pick her up, press her close to me with one arm and with the other I grab the spatula from the utensil rack on top of the microwave. I stand at an angle, my side turned toward the stove so she’s as far back from it as I can hold her. I spread the flour flat in the pan then cut it into the sizzling butter as it browns.

“You want to help me measure the milk?”

“Yes.”

I set the spatula on the counter and my daughter on the chair, get a measuring cup from the drawer. I put the cup down, unscrew the milk jug. “It’s pretty full, I’m going to help you hold it.”

“Okay.” She wraps both arms around the milk jug like when she picks up and hugs one of our cats. I hold the handle. Milk splashes into the cup and a bit on the counter. I pour the cup into the pan. “One more.” We refill the cup, more milk on the counter. I pour the second cup of milk in the pan.

“We got milk on the counter.”

“We got WHAT?!” I shout as quietly as I can, “that’s terrible!” In a loud whisper I sob, moaning somewhere between “wah” and “woe.” She smiles.

“I’m only crying because of that saying, ‘it is worth crying over spilled milk.’”

“Not really!”

“No, not really.”

“It’s actually ‘it’s not worth crying over spilled milk.’”

“What?”

“You said it wrong.”

“Oh, I must be confused again.”

“It’s okay.” She smiles again. I grab a rag hanging from the oven handle, mop up the milk.

“That’s everything for the cooking. The rest involves hot stuff so I’ll finish it. Thanks for your help!”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you know why I’m making mac and cheese?”

“For me.”

“Yep. I thought you would like it.” She smiles again and climbs down out of the chair.

“You make the best mac and cheese. You make the best in the whole world.”

“Thank you!” I stoop to pick her up, “hey can I give you another hug?”

“Not right now.”

“Okay. How about an air hug?”

“Okay.”

“It’s going to be a really big one, are you ready?”

“I’m ready!”

I wrap my arms around myself and groan. “I’m squeezing really hard! Can you feel that?”

“Yeah!”

“It doesn’t hurt does it?”

“No.” She wrap her arms around herself and growls deep in her throat, “RRRRRRAAAAAAHHHH! Did you feel that? I gave you a air hug too.”

“Yes! That was a hard hug!”

“Did it hurt?” She smiles.

“Yes, but not a lot. You’re so strong!” She smiles bigger.

“I’m almost as strong as you.”

“You’re very strong.”

She walks into the living room. I grab the macaroni bag, undo the twist tie. The pot lid rattles, I pull it off, set it one the stove, pour in most of the noodles. “Hey sweetie help me remember to get more macaroni noodles next time at the store.”

“I’ll try,” she calls from the next room. I open the spice drawer, rummage for the turmeric. I hear her dumping out a box of blocks onto the hardwood floor. I twist off the spice jar’s lid, dump the orangey yellow powder into the simmering mix of butter, flour, and milk. I set the jar down, put the cheddar block on the cutting board, and with the large knife I chop it into thing rectangles, then cubes. I pick up the cutting board, sweep the cheese cubes into the yellow milk mixture. With one hand I stir with the spatula and with the other I turn the heat down. The mixture thickens as the cheese melts. I click the burner off and pick up the boiling pot of water.

“I’m carrying some hot water sweetie, don’t come in here just now.” She doesn’t answer, I set the pot back down. “Did you hear me?” I hear her talking quietly, I think two dolls are discussing arrangements for their upcoming tea party.

“Hey did you hear what I said?”

“YES! I’M BUSY! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure you heard me.”

“HUSH!”

“I don’t like to be interrupted either but don’t yell at me and don’t hush me.”

“OKAY! FINE! NOW HUSH!”

The air hisses as I inhale through gritted teeth. I relax and sigh, turning into a yawn. I carry the pot of water and noodles to the sink. Holding the lid on with my hand I drain the hot water into the sink, carry the noodles back to the stove, dump them into the cheese sauce. I turn the other burner off and stir the noodles into the sauce. I get out plates and forks, set them on the table, pick up the pan, scoop mounds of noodles onto each plate. I set the pan down as my wife walks into the room.

“She’s finally out.”

“Good.”

“This teething and not sleeping thing is getting old.”

“Totally. You got good timing though, noodles are done. They’re pretty hot but everything’s served.”

“Great! You get drink yet?”

“Nope, you mind?”

“Sure.” She gets out glasses, fills them with water from the pitcher.

“Hey sweetie,” I call to the living room, “the macaroni’s done!”

“I’m not ready!”

“Okay, well, when will you be ready?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I walk into the living room, stepping over dolls and wood blocks and books. I squat next to her, put a hand on her shoulder. “How many minutes till you’ll be ready?”

“I said I don’t know!” She’s brushing a doll’s brown hair.

“Okay. Well, it’s time to eat soon. Are you going to come in two minutes, five minutes, or ten minutes?”

She frowns, then relaxes. “Five minutes.”

“That’s fine.” I kiss the top of her head. I stand up and walk back to the kitchen.

“Any veg?” my wife asks.

“Oh shit. I forgot. How about broccoli?”

“Sounds great.”

“Would you grab a bowl?”

“Yup.”

I open the freezer, dig out a bag of frozen broccoli, dump in into the purple bowl in my wife’s hands. She opens the microwave careful not to knock over the mound of raw materials and utensils I heaped in front of it. “Someday we’ll have a kitchen with counter space.” I nod, kiss her on the cheek. The bowl clanks as she sets it inside the microwave. Beep beep beep as she presses buttons, the microwave whirrs.

My daughter walks into the room. “You read for dinner?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Great! That was a fast five minutes!”

She climbs into her chair, picks up her fork.

“Careful, it might be pretty hot still. Blown on it.” She does, pops a bite into her mouth.

“Daddy this the best macaroni you’ve ever cooked.”

“Thanks!”

“It’s the best I’ve ever aten.”

“I’m glad you like it.”