Ode to Caryn: New Year's Day in the Kitchen

"Do you want pie crust on your chicken pot pie, or do you want me to cover it with biscuits?"

"Biscuits," Davis replied. Stephen never had a chance to answer.

I went into the kitchen and pulled out the flour, the butter, the new dough cutter I got for Christmas. I kneaded dough while vegetables cooked on the stove. I'd just wiped flour off my forehead when Davis entered.

"I thought we were going out to eat," he said.

"What made you think that?" I flattened the dough, preparing to cut out biscuits.

"Because we haven't done anything all day but watch football."

"Oh." I  nodded, reflecting on the two online literature courses I uploaded this morning before cooking Harley burgers for Davis's lunch. I thought about the laundry I'd done before he'd gotten up (at 11:30) and the hour of aerobics I'd done this afternoon while he and his father watched the Dawgs lose the Gator bowl. I considered the the two additional syllabi I composed before stopping myself to ask what topping my nineteen year-old wanted on his pie. Yes, I could see how he'd think that added up to a bunch of nothing. "You haven't said anything about going out to eat. I'm already making chicken pot pie."

"Well, are you going to bake the biscuits first, or are you going to put them on the pie and let them bake?"

"I'll bake them first," I answered. "I've tried it the other way before, and the bottoms of the biscuits don't cook." I stirred the vegetables in the skillet to keep them from scorching.

"Oh…" He frowned and pondered my dough.

"Do you want the biscuits to bake on the pie?"

"Yes," he said, nodding vigorously. "I like them better that way."

"I'll make you a tiny pot pie like that, but I can't promise the biscuit will cook all the way."

He pointed to the skillet. "Are you going to put okra in the pie?"

"Yes."

"Oh…"More frowning. More pondering.

"You don't like okra?"

"No, not really. Could you not put okra in my pie?"

I eyed him with one brow elevated. The expression should have been self-explanatory, but still he lifted his palms to the air and asked, "What?"

"Do you talk to Caryn Dronzek that way? I hope not." I put the pan of cut biscuits in the fridge before pouring a little chicken broth into the vegetables.

"Oh, no," he said. "Caryn always asks me what I want for dinner first."

I shoved him away from the stove. "Guess what, Dorothy? You're not in Oz anymore."

I couldn't help noticing he ate two helpings of chicken pot pie at dinner. Four biscuits. But on his plate were several picked out slices of okra.