Like wolves, the pack moved together across the landscape of the green, yellow and red prey known as the produce section.
Had they been traveling solo, or in the company of an elder, they likely would have gone unnoticed.
But they were a group of teenage boys — five, maybe six, of them — roaming the aisles of a suburban Mariano’s. On a Monday morning.
Their eyes darted this way and that as they honed in on specific vegetables, awaiting a unanimous vote of approval from the pack. They talked loudly, with abandon, a mile a minute.
Clearly, they were on a mission.
Clearly, they were hungry.
Clearly, they had a lot to learn because they didn’t even have a cart.
They bounced from fruits and vegetables to meats to the international imports aisle, chattering, discussing, correcting one another.
I spied them several times during my visit.
When another shopper started to laugh, I asked her what was going on. A scavenger hunt?
“I think they’re planning to make dinner,” she chuckled.
“What are you guys going to make?” I shouted down the pasta aisle.
“Fettuccini Alfredo,” a boy shouted back.
“Ah,” I said. “Enjoy.”
I turned my cart and immediately time traveled back to the summer of 2003.
My husband was away for the weekend. Our oldest daughter was at band camp. And my youngest daughter, a fifth-grader, had a friend sleeping over.
Round about 4 p.m., the girls emerged from the bedroom and said they needed a favor.
“What’s that,” I asked.
“We want to make dinner,” they chimed. “For you.”
Having no plan other than to order a pizza for the three of us, I responded, “How nice.”
And that’s when they laid down the gauntlet.
“First, ask no questions. Then, take us to the store and give us money. But stay in the car while we shop,” my daughter said. “Because it’s going to be a surprise.”
As a rule, surprises make parents nervous. Not because they are godawful but because they typically come packaged with a lot of chaos.
Still, the girls’ quest was admirable. How could I diss an offer to cook?
They had been perusing a Disney Cookbook, they said, and had selected a recipe they believed would be delicious.
We piled into the car. Once at the store, I gave them some cash and let them go, reminding them, “Sometimes recipes can take a long time.”
They ignored my warning and ran into the store.
I imagined all kinds of hell breaking loose. Oranges tumbling from the produce display, a cleanup in dairy, store managers wondering where these kids’ parents were and the sun setting before I’d be able to put the car in drive again.
But I was wrong. After about 40 minutes, they emerged, bags in tow.
“No peeking,” they said.
When we got home, I was ordered to my room and told not to come out under any circumstances.
Where had they learned that line, I wondered.
I heard pots banging and utensils hitting the floor. I smelled — what was it? — garlic? I tried not to picture a grease fire or a severed finger or the neighbors banging at the door.
These were, after all, two capable girls who had fared well in a joint science fair project, even if they had never made cinnamon rolls from a can.
It’s a parent’s job to provide opportunities and encouragement. Every child should learn how to cook, even if it means parents have to starve while they do it.
At 9:30 p.m., I cracked the door.
“Everything OK down there?” I yelled.
“Yes! Do NOT come down the stairs,” they bellowed, laughing hysterically.
I thought to myself, “They’re not cooking. They’re eating — everything in sight. While I starve in the bedroom.”
I know it’s tempting to assume kids are always up to no good, that when given a choice of two paths, they’ll likely take the one most traveled by temptation and troublemakers.
But if I’ve learned anything, it’s to give them the benefit of the doubt. Because often enough, even if they do choose the wrong path, they’ll find their way back.
As we closed in on 10 p.m. and I was starting to descend into a hunger coma, the bedroom door flew open.
“Come downstairs,” they said. “Hurry.”
I bounded. And there on the kitchen table, flanked by a proper table setting with cloth napkins and a floral centerpiece was a delectable casserole of pasta, tomato and spinach, oozing with cheese.
My heart swelled so much that my stomach stopped complaining.
I’ve eaten at a number of high-end Italian restaurants over the years but I have to say that pasta bake went down in history as Michelin-star quality.
We dined like royalty.
And, as my hunger subsided, the spotlight faded and the background came into view. A massive pile of dirty dishes and crusty towels and errant pieces of spinach and tomato had turned the kitchen into the aftermath of a frat party.
Could I clean up the mess, they asked. “We’re exhausted.”
It was the least I could do.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
