Hamilton flounced out of the kitchen, flour covering the silly apron he was wearing. Gill looked up from where he was reading and stared reproachfully at his bouncy father.
"That's Mother's apron," he pointed out.
"Yes!" Hamilton exclaimed. "I thought I'd make you one of Mother's home-cooked meals!"
Gill remained silent for a moment, eyeing the various ingredients painting the mayor's skin. "I'm not hungry," he finally said, settling more comfortably into the loveseat and continuing his book.
"Oh, come on!" a disappointed Hamilton cried. "It's delicious!"
Silence from the couch.
"I worked very hard."
"Fine," his son said curtly. "What did you make?"
"Potatoes."
Gill stared at his father again. "Potatoes?"
"Boiled potatoes," Hamilton continued, clapping his hands together. Sugar flew out of his fingers as he did so.
"You're mussing up the rug," was all that Gill said, though privately he wondered how one could make boiled potatoes using sugar, flour, peppers, mustard and mayonnaise. In fact, now that he thought about it, a distinct burning smell seemed to be coming from the general direction of the kitchen.
"You're no fun," Hamilton said, the corners of his mouth drooping uncharacteristically low. He pranced into the kitchen, attempting to assume a dignified air, which was quickly shattered as soon as he screamed.
"MY POTATOES!!!"
Gill smirked and sunk into the couch so Hamilton wouldn't beg him to help. In his own opinion, though, he felt that one shouldn't attempt to boil potatoes in the microwave.