Amuse bouche... Taste Thief

‘Y ou’re wearing my jeans,” said Frances to her 15-year-old son, Alex. “So?” answered Alex. “They fit.”

“Well, they kind of fit,” said Frances. “They’re a bit hippy on you, and not in a 1970s way.”

“Yeah, but there’s room for my phone and money and stuff,” Alex replied. “I’m not going out with a handbag.”

“Well, I have one that looks really good with those jeans if you want it,” Frances muttered under her breath.

She looked at Alex afresh. The jeans-wearing bottom half of his body was sticking out the double doors of the fridge, while he rooted around for food, as usual.

Maybe the jeans looked OK on him, Frances thought, which was weird. With three sons and no daughter, she’d hadn’t anticipated any raiding of her wardrobe.

“You need to start asking me before you take my stuff,” said Frances. “Hey, what’s that? Is that my good yogurt? That’s not for you, actually.”

“It’s in the fridge,” said Alex, opening it as it he spoke. “So, you know.”

“So-you-know nothing,” answered Frances. “They’re mine. They have extra protein. They’re dear and they’re mine.”

“I can read,” said Alex, in the bored voice he reserved for Frances. “I need the protein. I’m growing and stuff. What are you doing, bulking up?”

He snorted with amusement at the idea.

“I like one after Pilates,” said Frances, feeling embarrassed as she explained herself to her child. “Protein is good for building muscles.”

“Pilates,” said Alex, snorting again.

“Were you eating my kimchi?” Frances asked, remembering the depleted pickle she’d bought for herself.

“Rank!” said Alex. “It says on the jar you can eat it with anything. I had some on toast. I nearly puked.”

And you stuck a buttery knife into it, too, Frances thought. This could easily turn into a row. Alex had been a lovely little boy, her little shadow. Now her little clothes thief was the spoiler of the few small bits she regarded as her own.

“What’s wrong?” Frances asked, as Alex frowned at the yogurt pot as if it offended him.

“Chalky,” Alex said. “You can have it.” “I’ll pass,” Frances said. Alex put the half-eaten pot on the counter, dropping the spoon beside it, where it left a little pool of yogurt.

“And I suppose I’ll put it in the bin, too,” Frances said.

“Thanks, Mum,” Alex called back at her. “You’re a star.”

And your arse looks ridiculous in my jeans, Frances thought, as she watched him leave.