A friend of mine wanted me to post this somewhere, before she goes on vacation. So...my going away gift to her:

Life is full of funny occurrences. The year I turned thirteen, I melted a pot. Who melts a pot? Why would you even try? The thing is, I didn’t try. I burned the potatoes dry. Therefore, the pot melted. Supper was something to die for that night.

My youngest brother maintains that eating those potatoes has caused some sort of mutation in his body. He blames that day, when he ate blackened potatoes, for anything that may have gone wrong. If his bike decides to break, or he got grounded for something – well, then it must be those particular potatoes’ fault. I argue that he’s eaten potatoes roughly five times a week since he was two, so it could be some other potatoes that have ruined his life. It could be those baby food sweet potatoes. Anything that is pre-chewed must be evil.

I argue, that maybe the reason his bike is falling apart is because of a tendency to take out tools, pick up a hammer and say, “I wonder what will happen if I hit my bike frame with this?”

I’m exaggerating, of course. My brother is ten years old. Ten year olds boys don’t often express their thoughts. They just act. There’s usually no thought process involved. It just sort of happens. Then they have a dented bike, and all their little friends run away, not wanting to be around when the parents of said little terror find out that he’s been wrecking his brand new bike.

If my scorched potatoes did cause some malformation in my brother, that might explain a lot of things. For example, he has a tendency, that wasn’t apparent before, of asking the mot irritating questions during a TV show. “Why are they running? Why is she crying? How did they get on the roof? Why is the sky blue? How are babies made?”

Watch the TV, sweet pea. Then you’ll figure out what’s going on. Now shut up, so I can figure out which one was the criminal on NUMB3RS.

Other strange habits have cropped up in him. He started sleepwalking. I was only aware of this when he decided that my room was the place to be at midnight. He opened the door, just as I settled down after re-watching that NUMB3RS episode (and House, too) that he ruined for me. I pretended to be asleep. Maybe he would get the message and leave.

No such luck. He stood in the doorway. “What do you want?” I snapped. “I want you to leave. Go away.”

“This…this is so weird,” he said.

“What?”

“What…what we’re doing.”

I squinted at him. “What we’re doing? Yes, sleeping. Very weird. Go away. Go downstairs and far away from me.”

He stood there. Normally, it’s very hard to get through to him, but this was – “Are you awake?” I demanded.

“I…I, uh…” He seemed to be having a devil of a time trying to get the words out. Which, indeed, was strange, as he generally has a problem with shutting up.

The pesky habit of sleepwalking has continued. At my house, my grandmother’s house, my aunt’s house, the family cottage…those are but few of the known scenes of crime.

Maybe it is those burnt potatoes that started all of this. Although, the original ones may not be the culprit – I burnt Shepard’s pie the week before his first known nocturnal stroll. The potatoes were, um, a little black there, too…

I wonder if there’s a way to reverse the spell the potatoes have put on my brother. I’ll get to work on that.

After my kitchen probation ends.