"Ugh," Ruthie said, "I've had enough of rice crispie treats." She and I had made two batches of it for VBS. I showed her the super-fast microwave method along with my secret added ingredient: vanilla. Ok, I guess it's not much of a secret anymore. The recipe on the box doesn't include it, but after making an estimated 52 batches during my sophomore year of college for coffee night as an RA, I started experimenting to alleviate the boredom. To be honest, I won't eat rice crispie treats anymore. It was the "snack" to serve and anyone who spent anytime as an RA at Uarts in the early 90's at least (can't speak for my predecessors or those who have served since then) knew how to make rice crispie treats in their sleep.
"I'm not making them," Ruth said as her brother tried to charm her into whipping up the dessert of his hankering.
"You could make them," I said.
"How?" He asked. Mind you, I made sure The Boy knew how to make eggs, pancakes, and grilled cheese figuring that would get him through most of his bachelorhood when he leaves the home. He's not been interested in cooking, and I'm not interested in forming new battle grounds just to teach him survival skills. I'm apologizing to his future girlfriends and wife, but a mom's gotta choose her battles when it comes to her teenage son and I'll go for respect, opening doors, paying for dinner over teaching him how to cook it. There's always time for that. My husband learned to cook when I went back to college in 2004. He's a better chef than me, by far, even if he makes more dirty pots and pans than necessary. So, I should have realized that, even though he'd be using the microwave, I was going to have to get up off the couch, pause the chick-flick Ruth and I were watching, and help the helpless.
"First," I said, "You're going to take a stick of butter. Cut three tablespoons. The butter wrapper is marked with lines."
"Why don't I just chop it off at the three tablespoon line?"
"Because it won't melt as well. "
"That just doesn't make sense. It's butter. It'll melt."
"So says He Who Has Never Baked Anything In His Life."
"Fine. I chop the butter into three pieces."
"Three tablespoons."
"Three tablespoons, three pieces. Whatever."
I looked at him.
"What?"
"Put the entire bag of mini-marshmellows into the largest glass mixing bowl (I do have to be very specific with mr. literal) and then drop the three tablespoons of butter in to the marshmellows. You're going to microwave it for a minute. Take the bowl out. Stir. Put it back in for 30 more seconds, stir. Add a splash of vanilla, stir. Then add the rice crispies until you have strings of marshmellow forming."
"OK," He said, "Let me repeat this. I'm gonna put the ENTIRE bag of mini-marshmellows into the bowl"
"Glass bowl. You don't want to put the metal bowl in the microwave."
"I know that. I'm not an idiot."
"Just making sure."
He rolled his eyes. I let him. I was harassing him on purpose because it was fun.
"And I'm going to add the three TABLESPOONS" he emphasized for my benefit, "of butter. Then microwave for a minute. Stir. Microwave for 30 more seconds and stir. add vanilla, stir, add crispies. And smoosh it into the pan."
"A greased pan."
"You didn't say that."
"Yeah, you've gotta grease the pan."
"Why?”
(Many years later? I’m posting these drafts I wrote years ago). The Boy cooks for his wife and child. And hes really good at it. He brings us food that he’s attempted and its usually good! He is the primary cook in that house. Apparently? We taught him something.
