“Sushi? Are you sure?” I ask again.

My fourteen-year-old son looks determined, maybe even excited.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he says. His tone has a tint of finality. He does not want to be asked again.

“What about something easy?” I say. “Like pasta, or pizza, maybe soup with grill cheese sandwiches?”

“No, I want to make sushi,” he says.

“Okay,” I say doubtfully.

I get him a sushi cookbook from the library and let him look through the recipes. He wants to choose three, but I talk him into making a cucumber roll and one other roll. When he has chosen his recipe, I carefully write the ingredients down on my grocery list.

Saturday night comes. This is my son’s weekly night to make dinner. I suggest that he starts by making the rice. I ask him if he wants any help, but he declines.

Eventually he says, “Maybe I do need your help.” I walk into the kitchen to find our largest soup pot filled to the top with cooked rice. A bowl on the counter contains the failed attempt of a California roll. There are dishes everywhere and fish eggs on everything.

“Can you help me?” he says.

“I can try,” I say.

At dinner, my husband looks perplexed.

“How did you measure the rice?” he asks.

“I didn’t,” my son says. “I just dumped the whole bag in.”

“How did you know how much water to put in if you didn’t measure the rice?”

“I just dumped some water in, too,” my son says.

After dinner, I ask him what he wants to make next week.

“Maybe pizza,” he says.