The Internet is my mother

The awesome thing about having a tween is that you don't have to teach them anything, because they already know everything. 

OK, wait, no, that's the exact opposite of the truth. The truth is, they really don't know anything, but are convinced they do. With each passing year, this illusion grows grander, and they become more convinced it's true. It's like George Costanza said on Seinfeld: "It's not a lie if you believe it."

Mark is no different from his peers in this department. Last night, I was cooking dinner, and called him into the kitchen.

"What are we having?" he asked.

"You're having ribs and cooked carrots," I said. "I'm having chicken noodle soup."

"I don't want soup," he said.

"I know," I said patiently to the boy who never listens. "That's why you're having ribs."

He grunted, "Hmmmm," then asked if he could make ramen soup instead.

"What?" I asked. "No! I made fresh, homemade real food. Healthy food doesn't come in a pre-packaged bag!"

"That came out of a bag," he said, nodding toward the food I was warming up.

"Because I froze it," I reminded him. "It was fresh when I cooked it. Nothing in a bag beats frozen fresh food."

We both cracked up at that. But then I realized he really does need to learn to cook--someday soon he'll go off to college, and I don't want him living off those little ramen packets. 
 
During dinner, I asked what Mark what he wanted to cook. When he said nothing, I offered up burgers.

"I already know how to cook burgers," he said, in that pre-teen exasperated tone.

"OK, how about a steak?" I asked. "I'll teach you how to grill a steak."

"You don't know how to grill a steak," he yelped. "I tell you how long to cook it! I know how to cook, Mom."

It's true, he does guard his steaks religiously, as I tend to overcook them (seriously, what kind of civilized human eats a still-bloody hunk of meat?).
 
"I'm just trying to help," I said. "You have to learn how to cook."

"No, I don't," he snorted. "That's what the Internet is for. The Internet teaches me everything I need to know."

This time, I scoffed. 

"Oh well, then you don't even need a mom after all," I said. "The Internet can raise you."

"Whatever," he sniffed. "I'll show you I can cook. I'm gonna make some ramen noodles."
 
He went back in to the kitchen, filled a pot with water and turned on the burner.

"They only take three minutes," I said, helpfully. He just sighed and said, "I know, Mom. I can read the directions." I could almost see him rolling his eyes in the kitchen.

I stayed in the dining room, finishing my soup, not really paying much attention until approximately two minutes later when he grumbled, "COOK, noodles!"

I giggled and immediately bolted into the kitchen. I peeked over his shoulder at the still pot of water and the brick of ramen noodles swimming in it.

"You know the water has to boil first, right?" I said. "You don't put the noodles in until the water's boiling."

"I know!" he said, then, "Wait, what?"

I handed him the strainer, and he drained the noodles into it. I helped him refill the pot and place it back on the stove top. Five minutes later, he dropped the soggy brick of disintegrating noodles back into the boiling pot of water.

I walked back to the dining room, but paused first. He looked up at me, unsure of what was coming, but knowing full well he wouldn't like it.

"Always boil the water first, before you put any noodles or pasta in," I said. "They won't cook unless the water's already boiling."

Then I smirked, and because I couldn't help myself, I added, "Didn't the Internet teach you that?"

I didn't have to see the kitchen towel to know it was hurtling toward me. It hit the counter behind me as I ducked out of the kitchen.

Guess the Internet still has a few more lessons to impart on my budding chef.