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Jeremiah’s Mistake

Jeremiah hurried into the kitchen and washed his hands. He had exactly one hour until his father got home. He grabbed Dad’s favourite pot and set it on the hob.

He wasn’t used to starting dinner this early. On his nights to cook, Jeremiah generally threw dinner together in fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. ‘Easy-peasy food,’ Dad called it.

Not that Dad complained. In fact, he always praised Jeremiah’s meals, no matter how ‘easy-peasy’ they were. ‘Delicious!’ he would declare, smacking his lips over Jeremiah’s scrambled eggs or tuna sandwiches.

But Jeremiah knew Dad liked more complicated dishes, because on Dad’s nights to cook, he used a ton of ingredients. Dad made up his recipes as he went along, but his dinners always came out fabulous. Well, almost always. Last week, his attempt at salmon in puff pastry had ended . . . not so well. ‘I call this creation “fish lumps in soggy dough”,’ Dad had said, laughing. Still, he was able to save the evening; he simply turned the mess into ‘not-too-terrible salmon burgers’. Dad was a natural chef.

Not Jeremiah—at least, not until tonight. It was Dad’s birthday, and for once in his life, Jeremiah was cooking something complicated: spaghetti with homemade sauce.

He’d eaten it a million times, so he knew most of the ingredients. ‘Tomatoes, onions, garlic, ground beef,’ he muttered, looking through the refrigerator. They had everything except the beef. No problem; they’d go vegetarian tonight.

Jeremiah sliced the vegetables with Dad’s special knife. No wonder Dad liked chopping; it was satisfying. He looked around for more stuff to chop. Spicy peppers! They’d add a kick.

Jeremiah slid the vegetables into the pot, then turned to Dad’s extensive spice collection. Whoa! How many spices did a person need? He couldn’t even pronounce some of these! But he grabbed a few familiar ones—cayenne, black pepper, coriander, cumin—and sprinkled them in.

The pleasing aroma of fresh tomatoes wafted up from the sauce as he stirred it. Jeremiah grinned. Dad would be amazed when he walked in. Jeremiah was amazed himself.

Of course, he’d better taste it; he knew from watching Dad that you had to taste and adjust as you went along. He ladled some sauce onto his wooden spoon and sipped. Immediately, he spit it into the sink. It was horrible! Way too spicy. Also . . . cold? Oh. He’d forgotten to turn on the hob.

‘Just tone down the spice,’ he reminded himself. He set the temperature to medium and returned to the refrigerator. Aha! A lime would cool things down. He squeezed in as much lime juice as he could. One more taste. Ugh. Now the sauce was sour and spicy.

Jeremiah frowned into the pot, finally noticing how chunky the sauce was. It looked like a creepy salad. What a disaster. He snapped off the hob, shoving the pot to the back. Who did he think he was—Dad? He should have stuck with macaroni and cheese.

He trudged to his room. He could at least order pizza, so Dad wouldn’t have to starve on his own birthday. As he counted his money, he heard the front door open. ‘Hi, Jer!’ Dad called.

‘Coming.’

Jeremiah returned to the kitchen, where he found Dad digging through the pantry. ‘I’m buying pizza,’ Jeremiah announced. ‘It’s not much of a birthday dinner, but . . .’

Dad turned, holding a bag of tortilla chips and a bowl of . . . Jeremiah’s spaghetti sauce?

‘We don’t need pizza!’ Dad exclaimed. ‘This delicious salsa is a meal in itself!’