Trash Talking Mom

Since Claire Adele is out of town on a school trip, it is much easier for me to prepare meals for the family. Claire Adele is a vegetarian, whereas Jack, the Boy and I like to eat meat. In honor of Valentine's Day, I made bar-b-que ribs. It might have been a mistake to make ribs on the day of my "Writing into Wisdom: Exploring Feminine Archetypes" class where we discuss Greek goddesses and taking down the patriarchy, but I digress. I made cornbread as a side dish. Jack usually makes the cornbread while I make the ribs. The Boy was at a friend's house after school, and I didn't know when he was coming home. Jack was working at the trauma center, and I didn't know when he would be home, either. I tried to get everything prepped so that if they came home earlier, dinner would be in progress, but I could stall it if they were coming home later. Aren't I nice?

All of which is my excuse to why I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread. It came out looking like this.

Normally, it would have been twice as puffy. Jack saw it, decided it wasn't worth eating, and re-made it.

"Did you add baking powder?" he asked.

"I must have forgotten," I said. I bake all of the time, and I never leave out baking powder.

"No," he said, "I'll do it" when I said I would restart it. I was annoyed. Very annoyed.

The Boy came rushing in from doing his homework.

"You forgot to add baking powder?" he said. He brought his phone into the kitchen, looked at the cornbread, and started texting. Never had he been interested in my cooking failures before. He then went back to doing his homework.

This morning, the Boy told me he and his friend made mug cakes yesterday at his house, and they couldn't remember if they needed baking powder or baking soda.

"I thought you used baking powder, so that was what we used," he said.

"Did you texted you friend that I forgot to add baking powder to the cornbread?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I sent him a picture, too."

Great. Not only is my husband critical of my baking skills, but my son is also trash talking me to his friends. The Boy, who used to be a Momma's Boy, now thinks I am a daft old cow who can't bake. My inner Athena is telling to let the boys make their own dinner from now on.