The Day Our Teenager Cooked Dinner

My sixteen-year-old announced on a Tuesday that she was cooking dinner. For the whole family. By herself. "Don't come in the kitchen," she said.

We heard a lot of banging. Smelled some smoke. At one point we heard her say, very calmly, "That's fine. That's totally fine." The smoke detector went off once.

At seven-thirty she called us to the table. She'd made spaghetti with homemade meatballs, a salad with too many croutons and garlic bread that was mostly charcoal on one side and perfect on the other. She'd lit candles. She'd folded the napkins into little triangles.

It was delicious. Truly. My husband had three helpings. Her little brother said, "This is better than Mom's," which I chose to accept graciously.

She's cooking every Tuesday now. Last week it was tacos. Next week she's attempting "something French." We've bought a new battery for the smoke detector.