Sue,” said Joey.
“I’m going to be on TV !” said Mom. “I just got my own cooking show. This is my character, Fondue Sue.”
“How is this possible?” asked Alex. “You can’t even cook!”
“What do you mean? I cook for this family almost every night, in case you haven’t noticed,” said Mom.
“Yeah, potatoes from a box and spaghetti from a can,” Alex said. “They’ll have to call your show The Art of Opening a Can !”
Root beer went up my nose. I had to duck to avoid Joey’s mashed-potato-from-a-box spray across the table.
“Girls, c’mon now,” Dad said. “Let’s try to be supportive. This is a big opportunity for Mom.”
“Mom, you know what fondue is, right?” Know-It-All Alex asked Mom. “Cheese glop! Fondue is French for cheese glop.”
“Mom. Name the five food groups,” said Little Miss Homework (Joey).
“Meats, Vegetables, Fruits. Let’s see . . . pretzels and things like that go at the top, right? Junk food?”
“Mo-om. Pretzels are not a food group! They call it Oils, not Junk Food. They teach us that in third grade. At the beginning of the year.”
“Look, they’re going to give me all the ingredients,” said Mom. “I won’t even have to chop a single toe of garlic or sift my own flour. All I have to do is smile and point and read the prompts. Maybe a little stirring and mixing. How hard could it be?”
“Mom. News flash. Garlic doesn’t have toes,” I said.
“Witches stir and mix things,” said Joey. “Why don’t you just be a witch?”
“Hey, I know! You could be a TV anchorwoman!” said Alex. “Or a meteorologist on the eleven o’clock news. They smile and point. And you get to wear a matching two-piece suit, not a dopey apron with a funny fondue name.”
“But I’ll be acting,” Mom said. “I don’t have to know how to cook. That’s why it’s called acting. ”
Mom took off the King Lear hat and set it on the table, all crumply-like.
“This is my chance to make some real money. We could save for a house. A real house of our own. Not this crickety old monster with the falling-down roof.”
“We don’t have crickets,” Joey said. “Or monsters.”
“And we’re used to the saggy old roof. It’s like it’s leaning down to hug us,” Alex said. “And these crooked old floors remember our footsteps.”
I didn’t want Mom to be a goofy chef on TV any more than Joey or Alex, but I could tell it meant a lot to her. So what did I do? I remembered my role as the middle sister, the glue, and I rushed in to save the day. “It’ll be great, Mom. Don’t worry. I can cook dinner. Alex and Joey will help me. Right, you guys?” Nobody answered.
“Just think,” said Alex. “You’ll be like that weird lady on the old Mary Tyler Moore reruns. The one with the corny cooking show.”
“Cooking shows don’t have to be corny anymore,” Mom said, defending herself. “They’re hip now.”
“Mom!” I told her. “It’s not even hip to say ‘hip’!”
“Dad, you remember,” Alex continued. “The goofy lady who was always making flambé and flan and Florentine stuff. What was her name? Sue Ann?”
“Sue Ann Fondue?” Joey and I sprayed each other with laughter — and more mashed potatoes.
“Say it, don’t spray it,” said Alex, making us crack up and spray all the more.
“Sheesh,” said Mom. “This cooking thing is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought.”
I should have known the Reel Family was in big trouble as soon as I laid eyes on the Joy of Cooking.
It was the very next day after Martha-Stewart-formerly-known-as-Mom made her big announcement. She hauled this giant book out of the back of a cupboard we use like once a year, since you can only reach it by standing on a chair. The book was covered in dust that dated back to the Titanic.
Mom dusted it off. She cracked open the spine.
“When did you get that?” I asked her, in between choking on one-hundred-year-old dust particles.
“It was