Surviving the Andersen Brothers

Spaghetti

I chopped the garlic into tiny pieces and put them into the spaghetti sauce. Tonight, the second night at my new home, I offered to make supper: spaghetti and meatballs. It was a task bigger than I had originally thought. I was feeding a small army—not just my mother and myself.

       At least I wasn't attempting this at my own home, with a kitchen barely big enough for two people at once. This kitchen was huge! Dark granite counter tops, dark oak cupboards, with stainless steel appliances; this kitchen was my dream. It held two refrigerators, an eight burner stove, two ovens, two dish washers, a stand up mixer, five black, granite-looking, plastic cutting boards, and pretty much everything a kitchen would ever need—I swear that I died and went to heaven when I entered this room.

       I could hear one of the four doors open in the kitchen. I looked up from my chopping to see that Lilly had entered, a medicine mask over her mouth and nose. Her cough had gotten worse and she feared spreading the germs to any of us busy kids.

       “Do you need any help in here?” she asked, her voice muffled from the mask.

       I shrugged, not really certain that I wanted someone’s help, even if it was needed.

       Just then Vincent entered the kitchen, going directly to the refrigerator for a can of soda.

       “Vincent,” Lilly called to him. “Why don’t you help Jasmine out in the kitchen?”

       “I’d rather not…” he said, bored.

       “Too bad, you’re staying to help. Do whatever Jasmine tells you to do, okay?”

       “Do I have to?” he asked, a little emotion entering his voice.

       “Yes, you have to,” Lilly ordered. “I can’t very well help when I’m sick. I have clients I need to get to. I need to get better.”

       “Fine.”

       Lilly headed for the door. “Thank you, Vincent,” she said before leaving.

       Vincent sighed heavily and looked at me for something to do.

       “You know how to chop?” I questioned. He nodded. “Chop the onions. Careful with the knife, it’s really sharp; I sharpened them all this morning.”

       I shook my head and resumed my chopping. I honestly couldn’t believe that he still hasn't said a word to me. I live with him now—granted, there are eight other people living with us--he should at least TALK to me.

       There was no sound but the constant chop, chop, chop of our knives on the cutting boards. It filled the empty kitchen, creating a rhythm.

       A noise broke in to the rhythm. A sniffling sound. I turned to see a tear sliding down Vincent’s cheek. I skipped a beat in my chopping.

       “Are you okay?” I asked, putting the blade down.

       Vincent nodded, wiping his face with his shoulder.

       “Vincent, you’re crying. What’s wrong?” I touched his shoulder tentatively, stepping closer.

       “It’s the damn onion,” he said, the sound of his voice startling me. “Get back to chopping so we can finish this already.”

       Shocked from the sound of Vincent’s voice, I simply nodded and turned to my cutting board, clearing my throat before resuming my task.

 *            *              *

It didn’t take Vincent and me very long to have dinner finished and served—not very long due to the use of a second pair of hands. Vincent went around to find everyone to sit down while I set the table.

       A knock on the door caused me to turn my head and look. It was Caleb, his head peeking through the door between the kitchen and dining room.

       “Do you need any help?” he asked, pushing up his spectacles.

       I looked around. “Uhm… you can bring in the bowl of spaghetti sauce, if you want.”

       His head disappeared into the kitchen as he went to grab the hot bowl…. Hot…. Oh, he was going to burn hims— CRASH!

       I ran to the kitchen. Praying that he didn't get burned. Praying that my spaghetti sauce was not all over the kitchen floor.

       Entering the kitchen the first thing I saw was Caleb with his hand close to his mouth, cradled by the other—his glasses down on the tip of his nose. The next thing I saw was my spaghetti sauce, perfectly safe in it’s bowl. I breathed a sigh of relief.

       “Are you okay?” I asked.

       Caleb mumbled something, unwilling to remove his hand from his mouth.

       “You burnt yourself—I’m sorry, I should have warned you it was hot.” I took his hand from his mouth to examine it. The burn was on the palm of his hand and the tips of his fingers. Minor injuries, really. “Here, run it under cool water while I go get some toothpaste.”

       I ran to the nearest bathroom and tore apart the compartments looking for a tube of toothpaste. I found it underneath the sink and ran back to the kitchen.

       “What’s the toothpaste for?” Caleb asked, fixing his glasses with his unburned hand.

       “I find that it helps with burn injuries. I’ve burned myself quite a few times.” I rolled up my sleeves to show him all of my scars on my arms. "Minor burns, anyway."

       “Holy cow! What do you DO to yourself?”

       “I like to bake,” I admitted with a blush. I took his hand from the water. “Let me fix you up here.” I squeezed a decent amount of paste on my fingers and began to spread it on Caleb’s hand. He winced and pulled his hand back as a reaction. “Hold still….” He put his hand back and let me finish.

       “Hey, Miss Clark, want me to bring the spaghetti out…?” Vincent asked, entering the kitchen. His voice trailed off at the end as he noticed I was not alone. “Oh, sorry.”

       “It’s okay. Caleb burned his hand and I was just helping him,” I said. “Why don’t you get the sauce and I’ll bring out the noodles?”

       “Be careful, Vincent, it’s hot,” Caleb told him with a laugh. I laughed too.

       “Don’t touch your face with that stuff on your hand,” I instructed Caleb. He smiled at me sheepishly. I leaned over and pushed up his glasses with my index finger. “Trust me, it’ll burn your eyes out.”