On Control

I've been called a control freak. I've been called worse. I try, I really try, to let go and let others "do for me", you know? But, I am a mom and it's just really hard.

Still, Rowdy Son is going for his cooking badge in Scouts and that means, well, it means...he has to cook. He has to cook for us, but more importantly, he is going to be in charge of the food for the next camp-out. Since this is occuring next week, we are in high gear to figure out a menu that a) tastes good and b) he can manage on his own. This requires me to "let go".

Argh.

He told me that he thought beef stew would be a good "one-pot" meal for the troop. I agreed and together we cubed beef, chopped veggies, browned the meat, added the seasons and got it "simmering". I explained very carefully that simmering meant "barely bubbling", put the pot on a low setting and headed off to soccer practice with Sweet Girl. I told my son to stir occasionally, keep an eye on things, don't let it burn. Did I say, "Don't let it burn"? Hmmm.

I even called from the soccer fields every 20 minutes. "How does the stew look?", I asked. "Great!" he enthusiastically replied. "Does it smell good?" "Yep!" "Have you been stirring?" "A lot!".

A warning bell went off in my brain when he said, "It did feel bumpy on the bottom, but not anymore", but I thought--hey, I left it on low, how could it possibly burn?

We got home an hour later. I could smell the burning in the driveway. I went into the house, smelled more burned stew and asked him, "Don't you smell the burning?"

(I really did ask, not yell...really).

He said,--I'm not kidding-- "I thought it smelled good." "And, it looked good, too!". I looked at the pot. Yes, it was simmering. Yes, it looked fine--but I dumped it into another pot and the evidence was on the bottom...ALL the potatoes, most of the carrots and some meat. Stuck and black.

Well, I have tried to rescue it. And frankly, my family kind of likes the taste of burned anything, so we do have something to eat tonight, but it just amazed me that he continued to stir so faithfully (thereby stirring up black crusty bits) while that smell was in the air.

It reminded me of his father, 20 years ago. He was in charge of my houseplants. He watered them every day while I was on an extended trip. When I came home, they were arranged so artfully and proudly in the living room of our little apt. Black and withered and deader than doornails. It looked like an Addams family still life. Apparently, there had been a freeze. Apparently, he thought watering black, dead plants was just fine. I had asked him to water them, and he did. I guess I forgot to say "don't leave them outside in a hard freeze". Or, "If they are black, dead, sticks, throw them away..."

Like father, like son. And really, this is why I need to control them both (and everyone else and everything else in my life). But I can't.

I think we'll have hot dogs on the camp-out......