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since he’s Cuban, he likes to add a little bit of spice to everything. That’s kind of the waymy mom cooks too (when she cooks, that is). She’s from Atlanta, and she likes her food spicy. No matter how long it is between trips to the grocery store, there’s always at least one bottle of hot sauce in the fridge at our own house.
    Even though I pigged out at Lillian’s, Chef Antonio’s chicken is making me hungry. It’s almost six, and my mom and Cole will be home soon, so I open our “dinner drawer” and start flipping through the stack of takeout menus. While I’m debating between Indian and Middle Eastern, a commercial at the end of the show catches my attention. Antonio’s Kitchen is on our local PBS station, so there aren’t usually commercials, but this one is an ad for a cooking class with Chef Antonio as the teacher.
    â€œIf you love our show,” Chef Antonio says as if he’s talking directly to me, “then you’ll go loco for my live, six-week cooking class right here in our studio!”
    I drop the menus on the counter. I would so go loco for that class.
    â€œThis session’s theme is American Cooking 101,” Chef tells me. “Over the course of six two-hour classes, we’ll explore the vast array of cultures and cooking traditions that make up the melting pot we now think of as distinctly American cuisine. And as always, we’ll put the Antonio’s Kitchen spin on your favorite classic recipes, with fresh seasonal ingredients, a little imagination, and a whole lot of flavor.”
    Just then I hear a key in the lock and, “Uppy me, Mama, uppy me!” I turn around to see the door swing open with my mom behind it, carrying bags over one arm and trying to pick up cranky Cole with the other. I rush over to take her briefcase from her, along with Cole’s Curious George backpack and a bag of apples. My little brother is really sweet most of the time, but when he’s tired and hungry, he’s like a mini supervillain and it’s best to just let my mom deal with him.
    â€œWhat’s for dinner, Lize?” my mom asks as she settles Cole into his high chair and grabs a hot dogfrom the freezer. Hot dogs are Cole’s favorite, so I try not to think about the article we read in health class about all of the disgusting things that are actually in them. At least the ones we have are organic, and to be honest, I like them too. My mom pops Cole’s dinner into the microwave and looks up at the TV. Chef Antonio is slicing up his roast chicken while the credits roll on the bottom of the screen. “Mmm, now that looks good,” Mom says. “And so does he! Do you think he delivers?”
    I laugh, even though I still don’t like it when my mom makes comments about men who aren’t my dad, and hand her the menus I’d been considering before the commercial distracted me. She spreads them out on the counter and studies them as she washes and peels an apple for Cole. My mom is a master multitasker. Seriously, she could teach courses in it. She can bathe Cole, help me with my homework, and polish her own toenails all at the same time.
    We agree on Middle Eastern, and I call in ourorder while my mom makes sure that at least some of Cole’s dinner actually makes it into his mouth. (Don’t ask me why, but my brother insists on mashing food into his hair whenever he can—his food, my food, any food.) A new show has started on TV, but it’s not about cooking, so I turn it off.
    â€œHow was your day, Lize?” my mom asks as she scrubs practically Cole’s entire head with a baby wipe. “Have you finished your homework?”
    Before I can answer either of her questions, she’s already halfway to Cole’s room to get him ready for bed. I pull my math folder out of my backpack and try to make sense of tonight’s worksheet. I’ve always been good at math, but this year