Once we’re back at the house I put Kelly on storage detail, sorting and putting away the food we bought, while I carry it in and Karen follows my instructions to start dinner. It takes a little longer than I’d like, since I have to carry in the groceries myself. We bought two carts full of stuff and filled up the trunk of my Impala, no mean feat.
Once everything is put away I order the girls to drink glasses of milk while I heat oil and start working on the chicken nuggets. I trim and cut the meat I bought while I tell Karen how to make a cheap, quick breading from powdered biscuit mix.
“Why am I doing this?” she asks as she whisks up some eggs and a teaspoon of milk.
“It makes the coating stick.”
“Why does it have all that pepper in it? Won’t it be hot?”
“Not really. It’ll make it taste like something.”
“The oil is bubbling.”
I check the setting on the stove. It needs to heat a bit more.
“I want mac and cheese,” Kelly almost shouts. “You have to have mac and cheese with chicken nuggets.”
Karen starts to pull a box of mac and cheese mix from the cupboard.
“Put that shit away. We’re going to have real macaroni and cheese. Karen, help Kelly with it. I’ll tell you what to do.”
It’s not the best recipe—I’d rather bake it and put a bread crumb crust on it, but there’s no time for that so I have them start a basic white sauce while a box of elbow macaroni boils behind it.
“Drain the macaroni,” I tell Karen.
“It’s not done yet. It’s only been six minutes.”
I roll my eyes. “It’ll cook a little in the sauce. If you cook it all the way it’ll turn into mush. Just do as I told you.”
She huffs and shrugs, and mixes the pasta into the sauce. I have Kelly mix up a bowl of shredded cheese from the bags I bought then dump it in the pot and stir it up. She’s ten years old or something, she likes stirring.
“Keep going,” I tell her.
I reach over and turn that pot down and start dropping the breaded nuggets in the bubbling olive oil. It foams up a bit and Kelly sucks in a breath, but I give her a wink and a nod and she shifts on her feet, watching.
“What did you heat up the oven for?”
“Keep them warm while the next batch cooks.”
I bought two pounds of chicken. It makes about three and a half batches.
“These are really hot,” I warn them, piling them onto a serving plate. “Karen, put this on the table. I’ll get the mac and cheese.”
The kids are already piling up nuggets when I get back. Karen is about to smear hers into a blop of honey on her plate. I catch her wrist before I sit down.
“Try it on its own first.”
She looks at me and experimentally nibbles the chicken without first smearing sugar all over it to make it palatable.
Her face lights up and she looks at Kelly, who is already on her third nugget. Where the hell does that kid put all that food?
I serve the macaroni and cheese myself, piling it up on their plates. I save a little for myself.
Kelly eyes me. “Mom doesn’t let us eat that much.”
“This isn’t that boxed garbage, it’s actually good for you. Protein. Eat it.”
“Kel, want a soda?”
Kelly nods.
“Bullshit on that,” I say, rising.
“You cuss too much,” Kelly chides me.
“Yeah, I do.”
I return with one of Rose’s beers (apparently I need to go to the liquor store for her, too) and chocolate milk in the two biggest glasses I could find.
“Mom doesn’t—” Kelly starts.
“Don’t tell her,” I say, and sit down to eat.
The kids gobble down the whole tray of nuggets so fast I can’t believe they’re not making themselves sick. I eat my fill and sit back.
“I’m sleepy,” Karen says, yawning.
“That happens when you have real food. Let’s do the dishes.”
“What?”
“Come on, we have to cover our tracks. Or do you want her to know you had chocolate milk for dinner?”
Karen’s phone chirps.
“Mom needs to be picked up.”
Once the dishwasher is running, I wipe my hands. “I’ll get her. Get in bed.”
“But—”
“Now. Do it. I don’t want her flipping out when she finds out that I let you stay up. Go!”
They both look at me, look at each other, and trudge upstairs. When I’m convinced they’re not leaving I take Karen’s key and lock up, and drive over to the college to pick up Rose.
When she gets in the car she asks, “Did you make them something to eat?”
“Yeah, chicken nuggets and mac and cheese.”
She sighs. “I wish they’d eat healthier.”
“Not store-bought shit. I made it for them.”
She sits up and looks at me. “What do you mean?”
“I made them,” I shrug.
“What, like out of a bag?”
“No, I breaded and fried them in olive oil.”
She stares at me, blinking. “The macaroni and cheese?”
“I remembered a recipe from my mom’s cookbook.”
“Seriously?”
I shrug.
She yawns. “God, I’m tired. I have to get up at five in the morning again. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
When we get back she walks into the kitchen, yawns, and opens the fridge. Then looks at me. Then opens the cupboard, then looks at me.
“What is all this?” Panicked, she spins in place, looking at all the food. “I can’t afford—”