Terrible Takeover

By Emily Hutnyak

 “Éclairs.”

“Angel food cake,” I counter, crossing my arms and staring my little sister down. “We haven’t had that in forever.”

“Well why don’t we just do both?” Sophie flips through Mom’s gigantic recipe book. “If we make them at the same time, it’ll be really quick.”

I contemplate that. She has a point. Plus, who knows if Mom will take National Kids Take Over the Kitchen Day as seriously next year? This might be our only chance to have dessert for supper.

“Fine.” I survey the kitchen. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

A half-hour later, I’m beginning to doubt our choice of deciding to make two things at once. This cooking endeavor would be a lot easier if I actually had time to read the recipes.

I don’t think letting Sophie read all the instructions to me is helping matters. But what else was I supposed to do?

I crank the handle of the eggbeater double time with one eye on the stove timer. Its flashing countdown seems to be moving much faster than it should. “Sophie, what’s next?”

“It says to temper the eggs with the filling base!”

I blink. “To what?” A quick glance over my shoulder shows her helpless shrug, and I groan. “Mom!”

“I’m sure you can handle it, sweetie.” I can’t see Mom—she was casually reading a book in the living room last I knew—but I hear the laugh in her tone.

I bet she’s enjoying the fact that her daughters are getting their just desserts—pun intended—for all the times we’ve begged to make supper by ourselves. Or maybe she’s hoping to teach us a lesson.

To be fair, it looked like a lot more fun when we were just watching and helping crack the occasional egg instead of handling all of it on our own.

But we’ve got this. How hard can éclairs and angel food cake be, anyway?

“Krista!” Sophie’s frantic voice breaks into my thoughts. “The chocolate is burning!”

Not again! I yelp, dropping the eggbeater as the burnt smell hits me full force. Lunging at the stove, I flick the burner off and yank the pot away from the element, but it’s too late.

The smoke alarm blares, making Sophie and I clap our hands over our ears.

Sophie sends me a wide-eyed stare. “What do I do?”

“Open the window or something!” I’m about to snatch the recipe book off her lap so she’s free to move, but the oven timer going off makes me freeze like our éclair filling.

Surely the éclair shells and angel food cake didn’t burn too. Surely we aren’t that unlucky.

The smoke alarm pauses its blaring as I punch the timer: off button and yank the oven door open.

No billowing black clouds of smoke––so far, so good.

But the éclairs are flat slabs that distinctly resemble crackers. I’m pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen. And the fancy plastic mold we used to make the hole in the middle of the cake is, well…

Let’s just say I’m pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be a melted puddle of plastic at this point in the process.

“What is that?” Sophie whispers.

“Um…”

The smoke alarms choose this moment to start up again, which saves me from having to reply, albeit in a most annoying way.

As though the last straw has landed on her weary little shoulders, Sophie bursts into tears. “We… broke it… and we made… a mess!”

The cookbook falls from her hands, hits the floor, and sends loose papers flying everywhere.

Pressure squeezes behind my eyes, but I’m not going to cry, I’m not going to cry—

I’m crying.

Then Mom is there, wrapping us both in a hug. “Hey, it’s okay, girls. What happened?”

I point at the melted mess of plastic on top of the cake and the cracker-éclairs, furiously rubbing my eyes with my free hand. “We… we broke your cake mold.”

“Krista, that’s not a mold. That’s”—Mom squints at the plastic—“I think it was a divider for cakes.” She hugs us both a little tighter. “I should have helped you find the right tools.”

The smoke alarm pauses its beeping again, making mine and Sophie’s sniffles sound much louder. And more pathetic.

Mom looks around the kitchen, eyes widening as she takes in the entirety of the mess.

I wince, waiting for her to scold.

Her shoulders shake, and she giggles. Then her giggling turns into all-out laughing.

After a few moments of confused silence, Sophie and I join her, giggling through our tears.

I guess maybe the whole situation is a little funny, after all. The kitchen probably hasn’t been this messy in, well… ever?

Some takeover this has been.

“Can you help us, Mom?” I ask when we’ve all calmed down a bit.

“Well, I don’t know…” She’s smiling. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt your day of ruling the kitchen, after all.”

“I don’t want to rule it one minute longer.” I shake my head. “You do it way better.”

“Krista’s right!” Sophie chimes in. “I don’t wanna read another recipe for a year.”

“A year, hm?” Amusement dances in Mom’s eyes as she pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Well… let’s order pizza and clean up this kitchen in the meantime. How does that sound, my master chefs?”

Sophie grins. “That sounds great.”

“And Mom? No dessert, please.” I glance around the kitchen. “I think I’ve had enough of that for a while.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily Hutnyak is a young writer who occasionally decides to take over her mom’s kitchen for baking, sometimes with disastrous results. While she usually spins stories with more somber, serious notes, she sometimes writes things purely to make others laugh. You can generally find her hanging out with friends and family, reading, or, on rare occasions, venturing outside to get some fresh air and sunshine.

---

More Stories