A little vignette I wrote a couple weeks back. A look into Tyler's culinary past. Enjoy.
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The lens swirled open with a whir and the LCD screen flashed on. White balance slowly corrected itself, as the image racked focus between seemingly nothing and a small boy precariously standing inside the drawers of the kitchen counter. They were pulled out, arranged like a staircase. He was stabbing away at a large bowl with a wooden spoon, puffs of flour whooshing out with each jab.
“Hey Bay-bee, what’cha doing?” inquired the camera operator as she tracked around to the other side of the boy.
Startled, he jumped. A cloud of smoke hit him square in the face, as the foot in the bottom drawer slid backwards. His mother’s hand reached into the image and helped him out of his multi-level splits.
The boy’s eyes darted to the right of the screen, focusing on the red record light. He wiped flour from his lips before staring the lens down. “Moooom, I don’t wanna be filmed! Turn it off!”
“Aw, but come on! What are you doing? Tell Mommy what you’re doing, Ty-Ty.”
“I’m cooking a soufflé, Mom. Duh.”
“Oh really?” She zoomed in on the contents of the bowl: flour, cornstarch, three sticks of butter, and other various dry ingredients. “Why all the butter, Bay-bee?”
“It’s French. Get with the program. It’s a soufflé.” He shook his head, and hopped down from the drawers. The camera followed as he stumbled over to the refrigerator and pulled out whipping cream.
“And what, might I ask, inspired you to make a soufflé, little boy?”
He gave the camera an indignant glare.
“Excuse me. Big, master chef? Is that better?”
“Only slightly. But now you’re just being…” He slammed the carton of cream on the counter, and ambled up his constantly shifting stairway. He stared Heavenward in thought. “…patronizing.”
His mother laughed. “Alright. So I have a baker and a master wordsmith in my home. Now, are you going to tell me what inspired this ‘soufflé’?”
Cream splashed into the bowl, droplets splattering onto the already disastrous counter-top. The boy made a swift cycle around the bowl, took a tiny lick of the gloppy contents of the spoon, and shook it at the camera. “You see, Mom… Eating over at Alexia’s – they have a cook there – I’ve become accustomed to good food. And Mom; no offence, but…” He dropped his voice and offered the camera a sympathetic bat of the eye. “…your food stinks. A lot.”
There was an offended gasp. The camera began towards the foyer, no longer targeting the child. “Well. I guess I know when I’m not – I’ll just leave… and pout.” Hands wrestled with the camera, jerking it every which way – the ceiling, the sink, the floor, and back to the ceiling.
“Oh hey, Mom?” The camera movement ceased for a moment, as the operator awaited a bid to return. No such luck. “Before you leave, you think you can grab me the pudding? I think this needs some more…flair.”
A truncated grunt as the power switch is finally rediscovered.
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