Megan Rible How To Avoid The Kitchen Word Timing is everything. The guests will arrive at 5, so count backwards from then to determine how late you can sleep in. Get up too early and your mother will simply find more tasks to add to the list you know is waiting for you on the kitchen table. Get up too late and you'll merely aggravate the already volatile combination that is your mother in the kitchen less than ten hours before a dinner party. Something about extended contact with stovetops and refrigerators seems to send her into spontaneous nuclear meltdown. Perhaps she's allergic to the grout between the gray tiles of the countertops. As long as you're up by noon, you're probably safe. Pour yourself a bowl of raisin bran for breakfast. No need to rush, you have time to enjoy the sun streaming through the skylight. But don't linger over the paper. Your mother's been working in the kitchen for hours, reading cookbooks instead of comics, and it's not right to sit and relax in plain view while she's standing there in her ratty pink robe peeling the potatoes and watching the soup come to a boil. Your dad, with his excellently honed sense of self-preservation, has mysteriously disappeared and will remain conspicuously absent until rematerializing at 4:55, fresh and cheerful, to frost the champagne glasses. Until then, it is left to you to prevent core overload or deal with the fallout. Begin, as usual, by setting the table. Separated from the kitchen by a partitioning wall, you are perfectly situated: close enough to react swiftly to any command or crisis, far enough to be out of the way. Spread on your favorite blue tablecloth and a white lace cover. It has a wine stain from a previous dinner, but you know how to arrange it so that the rosy blemish is hidden beneath the white china plate with the delicate blue and green pattern. Silverware and sparkling crystal glasses, floating tea candles in a cobalt bowl, and don't forget the soup spoons. Before you ask if the blue linen napkins have been ironed, take a moment to check the language gauge. If you hear no swearing you are clear to proceed. "Oops" and "Damn" indicate caution. After the second "Shit," just use the paper napkins in the pantry. They don't fold as nice, but at least you might avoid acting as a catalyst for The Kitchen Word. The Kitchen Word, as it is known today, came into being when you were a wide-eyed nine-year- old watching Madonna on cable as she flashed her cones, whipped her platinum blond extensions, and screamed "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" into the pristine innocence of your family room. "Mommy!" you yelled, shocked, "She's using The Kitchen Word!" Ten years later, Madonna is a mother and you're once again tiptoeing around the kitchen three hours before the guests arrive. When arranging the place cards, make sure Mema and her sister Shirley aren't next to each other, and try to remember who's next on the Aunt Dorothy rotation. Your mom inherited the kitchen syndrome from Mema, your grandmother, whose culinary skills plateau with a delicious grilled cheese on white bread. Of course, instead of "Fuck" she says "Sugar Beets," but you can tell they mean the same thing. If genes hold true for a third generation, you'll probably end up the same way. What will your Kitchen Word be? Put your place card where you always sit, next to the door to the kitchen so you can serve and clear the dishes. When the table is done, go into the kitchen and do whatever your mother says until it's time to get dressed. Wipe the glass coffee table and take the unread newspaper out to the garage. Don't ask why we can't just use the creamy instant mashed potatoes from the box, but take the beaters from her tired hands and set to work pounding out the biggest lumps. Don't sneak more than one raspberry at a time, and limit to three total. Remember to wash your hands before cutting the tomatoes for the salad, and sponge up the red juice on the counter before starting on the avocados so that it doesn't stain the grout. If the soup needs more salt, be honest. If it has too much, nod and say it tastes good. As she sets the timer on the oven and leaves to put on her makeup, arrange the crackers in a floral pattern around the brie and cheddar, strips of light and dark overlapping in an outward spiral. That's why she needs you, she says, to add those little artistic touches that she doesn't have time for. Ten minutes to 5. Be the calm in the center of her frantic storm, be the cheese within her spinning crackers. Mmm, cheese. Add another cracker to fill the gap you just created and put the platter out on the coffee table.