On the day that both my brother and I were sick, both equally, terribly encumbered with the worst part of an enduring cold, we decided to try cooking our own breakfast. Concluding that the one thing to make us feel better would be a hot meal, we set about compiling clumsily the ingredients for Mitchell’s speciality; Boston Baked-Beans.
‘Have you got the beans?’ I asked stuffily, staring into the pantry.
‘Yeah I do.’ Mitchell replied, sounding equally as dreadful.
I walked over to the bench, ‘What else do you need? Where’s the beans?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t get any out.’
‘But I just asked you if you had some and you said’
‘What are you two doing?’ our mother interrupted, walking into the kitchen, ‘Are you feeling better now?’
‘Yes’ We both said in unison.
‘No’ I added.
‘No’ Mitchell added.
‘Why have you got toilet paper next to the stove?’
‘Why do you have toilet paper next to the stove?’ I retorted.
‘That didn’t make any sense, Crystal.’
‘Well, well, well.’
Our mother looked at us in mild bewilderment. Mitchell began to pour everything he could into the pot.
‘Have you got toast?’ He asked me.
‘No, I thought you had toast.’
‘No, that’s what I said I didn’t have’
‘Oohhh, okay, sorry. I’ll make toast.’
I began to search each cupboard for the toaster as our brother Bluke walked into the kitchen. By now, our mother is sitting at the table, watching us with mild amusement.
‘Hey, where’s the toaster?’
‘Why do you need the toaster?’ Asked Bluke groggily as he put the kettle on.
‘To get toast.’
‘Why do you need toast?’
‘To eat.’
‘Just eat kittens’ Says our Dad, who had walked into the kitchen holding my cat, and like each time he picks up a cat, carries it over to the oven and threatens jokingly to eat it.
‘Shut up everybody!’ Mitchell yells out loudly.
‘We weren’t talking, Mitchy’, Says my mother.
‘I was’, says dad.
‘So was I’ I add.
Bluke begins to scream, ‘WOOORRRRMM!!’
I begin to scream ‘WOOORRRRMM!!’
Mitchell screams ‘WOOORRRRMMMS!!’
Mum holds her head in her hand. The neighbours begin to look outside their windows at what’s going on.
Dad yells, ‘SHUT UP!’
The cats run away. We shut up.
I look over at what Mitchell is doing.
‘Did you put the chilli in?’ I ask as I taste it.
‘Yeah, I put in about half a cup or something.’
‘No, there’s no chilli in this.’
‘Yeah there is.’
‘I don’t believe you, I can’t taste it. Bluke, come here and taste this.’
‘I’m busy’ He replies as he starts to look for his Hannah Montana mug and starts making coffee.
‘Oh, can you make me one please?’ I ask, ‘Mama, can you come here and taste this, it has no chilli in it.’
Mama comes over and takes a spoonful. Two seconds later, she is choking and spluttering over the sink.
‘What have you done to your mother?’ Dad asks.
‘Nothing.’ We both reply.
‘Poisoned her’ Bluke adds.
‘There was no chilli in there anyway.’
‘Yes there was, I put like, a half a cup in’
‘No you didn’t. I couldn’t taste any.’
‘I did.’
‘He did’ chokes Mama.
‘Where’s your mug?’
‘What mug’, asks Mama.
‘Not your mug, Crystal’s mug’
‘Up there.’
‘No it’s not. Where’s my mug?’
‘Oh, maybe it’s in the dishwasher.’
‘Dad, why do you have my Hannah Montana mug?’
‘Why not?’ he replies.
‘Put more chilli in.’
‘Fine. But I did put heaps in.’
So we pour in another three or so tablespoonfuls.
‘Where’s my mug?’ I ask.
‘Where did you last leave it?’ asks Mama.
‘Where did you last leave your face?’ I retort.
‘Oh, I used it because Dad used mine.’ Bluke pipes in.
‘Errr, Dad, why did you go messing around the mug order?’
‘’Errr, I didn’t. You did.’
‘But I don’t even have a mug.’
‘Use mine then.’
‘Why didn’t you just use yours? Where is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s in the dishwasher’ Mama says quietly.
When we did get around to eating, Dad and Bluke had some and sweated from the heat generated by the chilli. I still couldn’t taste it. Mitchell said he could feel it in his throat and then again later, in the toilet. Mama told him not to be so disgusting and Bluke and I both laughed, I reminded him of the jungle curry dare and he groaned, and we laughed some more.
Happy birthday Broski.
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