Floyd Kelly

The afternoon was peaceful. Tchaikovsky played softly from the living room, and with the windows open, a gentle breeze made the curtains dance, a hint of jasmine. I was in the dining room, contentedly prepping some wool fur for the spinning wheel, mostly to pass the time with nervous anticipation. See, the all-accordion band finals were on TV at 5, and the plan was to dive into the pot roast that had been slow-cooking all day, followed by a glorious slice of cheesecake for dessert.

My brother, Jason, meanwhile, had started hours ago, whipping up that very dessert—one of those instant cheesecake mixes. But as time passed by, an unnerving silence had fallen over his part of the house. A process that was supposed to be fast was taking a long, long time.

“Jason? You need a hand in there?” I finally called out, pausing my craft.

I walked toward our small kitchen, but found the entrance blocked by the wide-open refrigerator door. Peeking around it, I found the usual scene. On the counter sat a perfectly prepared cheesecake, the creamy filling swirled beautifully in its graham cracker crust. And next to it, sitting completely still on the kitchen stool in his little safe space, was Jason. He was facing into the fridge, a blissful look on his face as the cold air washed over him.

“I know what you’re doing.”, knowing his humor. “The cheesecake is just sitting there.”

He turned his head slowly, a smile on his face. “I’m following the instructions!” … “See! Read the directions on the side of the box!” I did all the work, and now I’m on the final, most important step.”

I looked at the unchilled cheesecake, “Here we go again. And which step is that?”

He pointed a finger at the box. “Right there,” he said proudly. “See the line that says ‘chill.’ It says, ‘just mix and … chill.’” He gestured back to his usual zen-like pose in front of the fridge. “So, I’m chillin’. The directions are for the baker, obviously.”

I just rolled my eyes. As I walked back to the living room, the triumphant, amazing sound of the introduction music for the finals began to blast through the house, so loud hopefully people could hear it out on the sidewalk. “Jason! Hurry! You gotta hear this!”, a bit of snark, my eyes and ears glued to the accordion bands. A few moments later, a big plate loaded with pot roast and veggies appeared from over the top of the open refrigerator door, held by Jason’s outstretched arm. He yelled my name, ah yes! I quickly grabbed it and scurried back to the couch.

Jason put the cheesecake in the fridge, sank back onto his stool, the music muffled by the door he’d turned into his fortress. He had found his fun. He leaned forward slightly, looking deep into the shelves.

“Oh, hello there pickles on the top shelf,” His happy gaze drifted down. “Hello there strawberries! And nice to meet you, Mr. Mustard!”