Cooking for teenagers is like trying to fill a black hole with a spoon. I blink and suddenly everything in the fridge is gone. I swear I just went grocery shopping. Where did the five-pound bag of chicken nuggets go? Why is there only one slice of cheese left? Who eats four granola bars in one sitting and still asks what's for dinner?
My teens act like they have just completed a triathlon every time they come home from school. “I’m starving,” they declare dramatically, flinging open the pantry as if they have not eaten in days. I offer a snack. They want a meal. I offer a meal. They want takeout. It is a moving target.
I try to meal prep. It lasts maybe two days. On Monday I make a giant batch of pasta thinking it will stretch through Wednesday. By Tuesday morning, it has mysteriously vanished. “Oh yeah, I was hungry,” says my son with a shrug, as if eating an entire pot of spaghetti is a casual event.
Then there are the dietary phases. One week they are gluten-free. The next week they are protein loading. Suddenly, someone is dairy intolerant. I try to adapt, but honestly, I never know who is eating what anymore. I just make whatever I feel like and cross my fingers it passes the vibe check.
Sometimes I fantasize about living alone with a mini fridge and one fork. But then my teen comes into the kitchen, sniffs the air dramatically, and says, “Did you make that chicken again? That smells so good.” And just like that, I forget the chaos.
Until they leave one crumb in the pan and call it “saving some for later.” Then I remember again.