Sure, a few bits of eggshell made its way into the pot. Yes, there were several inexplicably large pools of olive oil on and around the stove. Logan attacked the kitchen with a disregard for his own inexperience. And Harry just watched as the ramen brick was torn to bits and mixed with tabasco, worcestershire, mayonnaise. The dish began to come together when Logan added the broccoli and spinach. It bubbled to an enticing thickness and was removed from heat when it began to develop a thin, dark orange skin.
Without a word, Logan grabbed the large clay bowls and set them on the table with the fancy Chinese soup spoons. Harry watched the certainty and grace in Logan's movement, but also noticed how he fought against the smile that was attempting to form on his face. He spooned the mixture into the bowls with intense concentration. What a joy to watch him in action!
The table set, the food ready, Logan sat and placed a napkin in his lap.
"Well," Harry said at last, "may I taste your concoction?"
"Dig in, dad." Logan said, and began to eat with the same messy diligence he brought to the preparation of the dish. Harry chewed on a spoonful. It was thick. There were a lot of flavors competing for attention and the richness was almost nauseating. But a distant harmony persisted; it tasted right. He watched Logan methodically consume his creation, then sit back in his chair, satiated.
"Well, chef," Harry said, wiping the corner of his mouth, "how was your dinner?"
Logan stared at his father for a few moments. Then he stood, picked up his clay bowl and hurled it through the kitchen window, sending glass shards across the kitchen floor.
"It was pretty fucking good, dad."
And Harry wondered if rock and roll would ever die.