#and sometimes it does come pre-sliced in a plastic bag but its not wonder bread

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

Some non negotiables in my life are good coffee, good bread, good cheese, and good chocolate. I will spend So Much money on those things. Everything else? I'll get at dollar tree or whatever but even when I'm flat broke those are the four things I refuse to compromise on.

[willow-salix]

Isolation update, loosely titled "John and Selene parenting Alan".

Day 87 of Isolation on Tracy Island.

“I’m starving.”

“How nice for you,” Scott commented.

“You know where the kitchen is,” John added.

“Yeah, go make yourself a sandwich or something,” Virgil suggested.

“Make a sandwich?”

“Yes, a sandwich, you know, two slices of bread, filling in the middle, it’s hardly an alien concept,” Gordon laughed. “Make me one too while you’re at it.”

“Make it myself?”

“It’s not that hard, Allie. You need to learn to fend for yourself sometime,” Virgil told him patiently.

Alan went quiet then sneakily took out his phone.

“I swear, if you text her to get her to make you a sandwich, I’ll get EOS to wipe all your saved game data,” John warned him not looking up from whatever he was working on on his tablet, his uncanny ability to see everything still working on earth without Five.

“Like I was going to do that,” Alan huffed, but he did slip his phone back into his pocket. “I can make my own food if I want to.”

“Sure you can,” Gordon’s tone said he’d be more inclined to believe that they had Nessie living in the cove.

“I can and I’ll prove it,” he declared, stomping down to the kitchen.

I walked in about five minutes after this conversation and flopped down on the nearest couch, it didn't matter that Gordon was already there, I just sat on him.

“What’s going on? What did I miss?”

“Alan is apparently capable of making food for himself,” Scott told me. "He's proving it to us right now."

“Seriously? You guys let him go into the kitchen by himself?”

“He’s old enough to make a sandwich,” John pointed out.

“It’s also Alan,” I argued. “I’m gonna keep an eye on him and make sure he doesnt hurt himself in there.”

“Don’t help him, I know you and so does he. You’ll watch for no more than two minutes before he does something stupid, likely on purpose because he knows that you’ll take over and do it for him,” Scott warned me.

“I’m not going to help, I’m going to supervise.”

They all gave me that look that said they didn't believe me. Honestly, I didn’t believe myself either.

“OK, I might help him but just a tiny bit.”

“No, I'm being serious, he needs to learn to fend for himself a little, he can’t rely on us forever,” Scott insisted. “Don’t help him. Keep an eye on him if that will make you feel better, but you have to sit on a stool and stay there.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Dude, did you just tell me what to do?”

“Run...away…” Virgil hissed under his breath.

Scott took his advice and took off, yelling something about hearing Grandma calling.

“Wimp,” I muttered.

Gordon sniggered.

“He’s right though, you need to let Alan do things for himself,” John said.

“You’re not stupid enough to give me an order, are you?”

“No, I’m telling you the truth and asking you to be sensible.”

“Fine, I’ll try.”

“Want me to come with you?” he sighed. I nodded, I was going to need back up, I could feel it in my bones.

By the time we got to the kitchen Alan had already started and by this I mean he had dragged out a number of bowls and was standing in the pantry staring at the shelves.

He poked his head out as we entered and looked visibly relieved.

“She’s not helping you,” John told him. Alan slumped.

“We’re supervising to make sure you don’t kill yourself,” I told him, taking a seat at the table.

“I don’t need supervision, I’m perfectly capable of making pasta without help.”

“Of course you are, forget that we’re even here, we’ll just chill over here with a cup of coffee,” I assured him.

“I’ve got a recipe,” he informed us.

“That’s good,” John nodded, "recipes are there to help."

“Cornflakes will work as breadcrumbs, right? They’re basically the same thing.”

“I-”

John interrupted me with a gentle nudge of his elbow.

“Whatever you think, Allie.”

“I need gloves, cooking can get messy!”

As we watched he dug around in the first aid kit we kept in the cupboard because…boys and a kitchen, and pulled out a pair of gloves. Examination gloves. Whatever.

“You gotta cook the pasta first, right?”

We stayed silent, John reading something on his tablet which I was pretending to look at too but really I was watching the baby drag a massive bag of pasta out of the pantry and proceed to pour it into a bowl.

“Pasta cooks in water,” he reminded himself, turning on the tap and filling the bowl with water. He glanced from the stove to the microwave and back again.

“Please don’t let him put the bowl on the stove, please don’t let him put the-” I chanted under my breath, breathing a sigh of relief when he shoved the bowl in the microwave. Maybe he did have a little common sense, maybe they were right and he could do this by himself. Had I been enabling and babying him too much? Not that the others could talk considering I had to look after all of them just as much.

“About eight minutes should do it,” he said confidently. “I know Virgil did that with that other pasta, you know, the one that looks like a...blob. A squiggly blob. This isn’t blob pasta but it should work the same.”

I glanced at John who shrugged. He had no idea what blob pasta was either.

Alan stood and watched the bowl going round in the microwave for a few minutes with such concentration that I wondered if he’d hypnotised himself. I nudged John who looked over, but upon finding no blood on his brother, shrugged and looked away again.

“Oh, I forgot the aluminium foil,” Alan located the tin foil in the fifth place he looked, the freezer for some bizarre reason I wasn't about to try and figure out, and ripped off a large square.

With some difficulty he constructed something that looked like a very thick, very lumpy tin foil bowl with a flappy lid.

He rummaged in the pantry again and emerged with a jar of sauce, red so I'm assuming something tomatoey, and glanced at the label.

“No added sugar? Is this sauce broken? Everything needs sugar. I’d better add some, just to be on the safe side.”

“John,” I whispered, nudging him again.

“Just leave him, he’s fine.”

“Then you can deal with him when he’s bouncing around the house at 3 am on a sugar rush,” I sniffed.

John looked as if he wanted to deal by leaving the planet…again.

I watched as Alan liberally sprinkled sugar in a thick layer on the bottom of the tin foil bed.

“Needs cheese,” he decided and went to the fridge. Did he get the nice edam, the cheddar or the parmesan? No. He selected three packages of plastic, pre sliced burger cheese and some of Gordon’s squirty nightmare and brought it back to the counter.

He unwrapped all three packs of cheese and began to layer the slices on top of the sugar in his homemade bowl.

“More sugar I think, it looks like it really needs a sugar crust.”

He reached for the sugar again and noticed his cornflakes for the first time.

“My breadcrumbs!”

He selected a spatula and proceed to lift up the entire cheesy, sugary mess and, holding that in one hand, opened the box (I say opened, but read ‘rips open the box with his teeth, spilling them everywhere as the sides give way’) and crumbles a thick layer onto the tin foil with his hand. Handful, crush in fist, dump onto foil, repeat.

Eventually he appeared satisfied with this and slid the sugar/cheese pile back on top of the cornflakes.

“Perfect. Now, sauce.”

If I had thought he would do the sensible thing and mix the sauce into the pasta, I obviously didn’t know Alan, because being sensible when cooking is not in his genes. He opened the jar (with much difficulty and a very quiet swear word that he thought we didn’t hear) and dumped its entire contents into the bowl.

“Awesome, look at me, I’m cooking!” he beamed proudly at his food monster.

“Yeah you are,” I agreed as cheerily as I could force out between gritted teeth.

“Deep breaths, love,” John whispered.

“You’ve said that before and it didn’t help then either,” I shot back.

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes it did, I can think of at least three times when that was very good advice.”

“Well I wasn’t thinking of those times, I was thinking of times that involved your brothers.”

“Oh, then no, but anything is worth trying.”

“Noted.”

The microwave dinged and Alan popped it open, grabbing the bowl.

“OWW!”

I was halfway out of my seat when John caught my arm and pulled me back down.

“Don��t make me sit on you,” he threatened.

I sighed and sat back down again.

Alan glared at the bowl like it had betrayed him, offended his ancestors and told him that the Cavern Quest servers were down.

He sighed heavily and poked at the pasta with a knife, a very sharp knife that I didn't believe he was mature enough to be holding.

"He knows how to use lasers to cut through metal, he can handle a knife," John reminded me.

"Only because you guys are stupid enough to give them to him," I argued.

"I’ve no idea if it’s cooked or not.”

Obviously deciding to risk it he picked up a large spoon which at least had draining holes and proceeded to ladle the pasta out in big, dripping spoonfuls (rather than using a colander like a sane person to drain the entire thing in one go) and dumped it one by one on top of the sauce.He didn't look like he was enjoying himself.

He sighed again, poking at the cheese. “There’s like, not even a five percent chance that this is going to work, is there? No chance at all. Absolutely none.”

He looked so defeated that I just wanted to hug him.

“Be strong, you can do this, he has to learn on his own some time,” John patted my hand encouragingly. I laced my fingers with his and held on tight for dear life, needing his strength and support more than I had ever done in my life before.

“More cheese will help, cheese fixes everything.” He grabbed the can and squirted the entire thing, slowly but surely, with many disgusting noises, on top of the pasta. He then sprinkled more sugar on “for luck” and added another layer of cheese slices.

“They do garlic bread with pasta don’t they?” he asked himself. Obviously deciding that yes, they did, he found a bread roll in the cupboard and hollowed out the middle.

Curious as to just what the heck he was trying to do, I peeked over John’s tablet, watching him like a hawk.

He scooped out four big spoonfuls of butter and dumped them in a small bowl, then squeezed out half a tube of garlic paste, mixed them together vigorously and then spooned the mess into the center of the roll.

At a loss as to what to do with his garlic bread bomb he popped it on top of his creation and stared at it for a moment or two.

“Oh! It needs to be toasted!”

He reached for the chef’s blow torch that lived beside the stove.

“Al-” I began but was silenced by John’s hand over my mouth.

“He has a rocket, he can handle a little fire.”

“Gahhh!” Alan waved his hand frantically, trying to put out the flame where he’d set fire to his glove. “Oww!” he yelled as said glove melted and welded itself to his palm.

I looked at John, both eyebrows raised communicating perfectly well, without words, the fact that I had told him so.

John dropped his head into his hands, muttering about idiot brothers.

Undeterred Alan artfully charred (burnt) the top of the bread roll and then began wrapping up his tin foil parcel, squeezing it, compacting it down small, and then added more foil.

“Can you put foil in the oven?” he asked us.

“Yes, you can,” John answered for me, knowing I wouldn't stick to just one bit of helpful information. “But you can never, ever, put metal in the microwave.”

“Ah, yeah, cool cool, I knew that, I was just testing you.”

“Sure you were,” John patted my knee again, reassuring me that everything was fine.

Alan picked up his aluminum foil wrapped parcel, holding it like a baby and looked around for the oven. Now, this is a big house, with a lot of people to cook for, so we have a lot of options here.

Unfortunately he selected the wrong one.

“1000 watts, that’ll do it.”

“No, Allie, that’s-”

He slammed the door shut and pushed the button.

Ping! Ting! Little sparks of lightning erupted in what was actually another microwave, not an oven at all.

Another spark, this time erupting from the microwave itself, not inside it, firing off towards us.

Alan ducked like someone had opened fire from outside, crouched on the floor, giggling nervously as the scary electrical box continued to conjure up random sounds and flickering lights.

Smoke was rising and, finally sensing that full disaster was imminent (good danger spotting skills there, babe, wouldn’t think that disasters were your job) John yanked me off the stool and pushed me under the table just as the microwave let out one last, long, loud, kitchen rumbling bang and went dark, smoke puffing out of it like a dejected steam train.

I picked myself up off the floor, using a hand on John’s head to steady myself and surveyed the destruction.

John did the same, staring at the bent door of the microwave in utter disbelief.

I opened my mouth but he hushed me with a finger on my lips, his eyes closed, praying for strength.

“No, don’t say a word.”

“Woah,” Alan coughed, flapping his hand at the offending smoke as he got to his feet, glancing at the remains of the thing that had turned out not to be an oven after all. “I think I’ll have to leave that alone for now. Any chance we can get Virg to pick up some take out?”

(This was inspired by a post my kid read out to me from a GQ interview with Robert Pattinson, I just adore that chaotic idiot. You can read it here.)