With the mousse safely on its shelf in the refrigerator, freshly licked beaters fly through the air as six hands reach for the singular bowl. Fingers greedy for a sugary sweet coating inadvertently deposit their prize on brothers’ sleeves. Shrieks of affected torture issue from lips that are convinced they will never taste something so worthy as what is at the bottom of this blue plastic container. The boys huddle at the far end of the kitchen. Jules, the oldest and strongest, grasps the bowl, his brothers flanking him on either side, like football players battling for their chance at a chocolaty interception.
All this for one little ounce of chocolate, left behind by a too-stiff spatula. But who cares about the untouched mousse in the fridge! We’re kids and we want to lick the beaters, and we want to double-dip our spit-covered fingers in the mixing bowl.
I don’t tell them to calm down. I don’t tell them they’ll have to clean up when the battle is over. Across the kitchen, I lean against the counter, enjoying the show and an extra chocolaty wooden spoon that was left behind.