The Quicker, the Better: a Kitchen Disaster

     It was when we had first moved to Truman Road-after the fire, after the remodeling, It happened when the countertops were modern and fashioned of yellow formica and the wallpaper glistened in a yellow and green kitchen pattern. Plenty of pine cabinets sporting black pulls, a bronze gas cook-top and a wall oven with pull-out broiler spoke volumes about the style of the time. In this kitchen my mother reigned. She was not one to share the throne, so I did not learn to cook under her guidance.

     One disaster after another followed me through my gallant efforts, however. From a pound cake weighing five pounds, resulting from not beating between each addition of eggs, to the baking of a hotel-recipe for yeast rolls in a friend's kitchen, I was not Betty Crocker. Well-meaning friends' mothers would gift me with Cookbooks for Kids at the age-appropriate birthday, but aside from admiring the pretty pictures, these texts were not Must-Reads in my house.
    My best effort from the Cookbook for Kids was Bunny Salad (pear with a mini-marshmallow tail and cherry nose). Delicious.
    One afternoon, my BFF went with Mother and me  to the grocery store. My task was to run in, grab a head of lettuce, pay, and hurry out.  Mother wasn't dressed for the grocery and this should be a quick little trip,  Wrong.  "What's taking her so long?" my friend murmured.  "I can't imagine," Mother replied.  "Go check," she instructed.  I was easily spotted in a dilemma at the produce stand.  Unable to tell the difference in lettuce and cabbage, it was down to eeeny-meeeny, miney-mo.
     So, when I decided to treat Mother and Daddy to a surprise Saturday breakfast, the outcome should not be surprising, I was not so brazen as to light the stove and attempt eggs or bacon or biscuits. I began with the simple - coffee.  How many times had I watched Mother fill the percolator carafe with water and the basket with coffee. Plenty.
 

   I managed the water portion of the task. Now, to find the coffee. I opened every cabinet within my reach. No coffee. I opened canisters and found sugar and flour, but no coffee. At last, I discovered a jar of coffee.  It did not look like the cans or bags I'd seen at the grocery store, but the label plainly spelled out COFFEE.  Trouble was, in little letters above the word "coffee" was the word "instant." That would be all the better, I surmised.  The quicker, the better.
    I filled the percolator basket with instant coffee, nestled the stem into the base, put on the lid firmly and prepared to see the coffee bubbling up in the glass bubble on the top.  I plugged the coffee pot in and perking sounds began.
     The aroma of coffee and the melodious perking sounds must have awakened my parents. They hurried to the kitchen where I was about to pour their first cup of morning fortification.
     It did not take long for us to discover a new reason for Jane to stay out of the kitchen.