A Crooked Kind of Perfect: You Are Invited–The Kitchen Is Closed

And then everybody who was behind the couch pops out and starts laughing and hopping up and down and their clogs are clattering on the marble-looking tile. Nine—no, ten, counting Emma’s—ten pairs of noisy, shiny, sparkling clogs.

And then Dad starts singing, holding up the spatula like a pitchfork and hooking his thumb on the strap of his imaginary overalls.

I add a couple of trills—little flutterings of notes—to spice things up.

Hugh just delivered Dad’s latest Living Room University course: Rolling in Dough: Earn a Dolla’ Baking Challah.

There are no violins in here, just an upright piano and a plastic box full of percussion instruments: tambourines, maracas, bells, a triangle.

At first, I miss the Perfectone D-60’s Rumba switch, but pretty soon everybody is shaking their tambourines and maracas and it sounds okay.

“Sweet brother of Bach, don’t yell like that. You’ll apoplex me.”

I tell them that there’s this valve thing at the top of your stomach that hangs open a little bit so burp gas can escape, but when you’re in space there’s no gravity and the hamburger or yogurt or whatever you were eating floats up and presses that valve closed.

Butterscotch Biscotti. Pecan Sandies. Haystacks. Molasses Chums. Marshmallow Puff-Daddies. Cornmeal Bows. Bada-Bings. Maple Macaroons. Shortbread. Gingerbread.

Danny Polzdorfer is monopolizing the Maple Macaroons.

“I live on Grouse Avenue, right by Warbler.” Lots of the streets in Eastside are named after Michigan’s native birds.

“Ultimately, you’ll be playing this with Rock Beat number three, but for now—”

“And this piece that you played today, the Bach Cello Suite no. 3, how long have you been working on that?”

“He’s co-creator of the Amazing Maple Tart, debuting tonight at Chez Us.”
“Debuting?” Mom asks. “Half of it is already eaten.”

I sit there and then Colton and Henry and Danny start asking if I brought any cookies and I tell them no, but I’ve got a shoe box full of mini éclairs.

“He’s not smitten,” I say. I don’t exactly know what smitten means, but it sounds okay, like I wouldn’t mind if Colton Shell was smitten. Like it might actually be kind of good to have somebody smittening me.

“Wore a new shirt for her. Threw her garbage away at lunch.”
“Garbage pickup is a clear indicator of smittenhood,” says Dad.

“Dialogue?” asks Emma. “Can you use it in a sentence?”
“Our dialogue was interrupted by a handsome stranger before you had a chance to wish me a happy birthday,” I say.

I can’t go in the kitchen because Dad and Wheeler are finishing my birthday cake, which I know is really more of a wedding cake because Dad has to make one for Patty Cake, Patty Cake: Make Some Cash, so instead of a pudding-in-the-middle cake from a box like we usually have, I’m getting a three-tiered birthday cake with a gazebo on top.

I can’t go in the kitchen because Dad and Wheeler are finishing my birthday cake, which I know is really more of a wedding cake because Dad has to make one for Patty Cake, Patty Cake: Make Some Cash, so instead of a pudding-in-the-middle cake from a box like we usually have, I’m getting a three-tiered birthday cake with a gazebo on top.