Sunday dinner

Max's Roasted Chicken


David noted the crocheted cloth that covered the dinner table. And he didn’t miss the fact that Liz had a new hairstyle. The aroma from the serving platter caressed his salivary glands. And when he pulled up a chair, passion or serendipity sat down once more.
Grandma Doyle, “Nana” to the seven others at the table, was in her favorite place, next to David, “Okay everybody quiet down. Liz, go ahead and say Grace today, I’m too tuckered out.”
The dining room hushed. Nana closed her hands, propped up her head, and shut her eyes in prayer.
“Heavenly Father,” Liz said softly, “We thank You for your everlasting love. Stop that Timmy, you wait for the meal with all of us.”
Timmy, seven years old, had a black eye. He squirmed, and bowed his head.
“Thank you Lord for helping David. He passed his bar exams. We also thank you f…”
“Crack!” Nana’s lower denture eased from her bottom jaw. It landed, dead center, on her dish.
Timmy leaned toward the old woman, “Go Nana! Spit out the other one!”
Nana sat motionless; head cradled between her fists. Her remaining denture sprang from her mouth, followed the same route as the former, and landed on her dinner plate. A tooth separated from its mount and spun like a piece of candy corn.
Liz looked hard at Grandma. “Nana, are you okay? You’re awfully pale.”
David leaned close to Nana and then turned to Liz. “I don’t think she’s breathing.”
“Do something!” Liz shouted, “Nana, Nana, wake up!”
David grasped Nana’s forearm, “You okay Nana?”
The old lady moaned. Her chin slid from her fists, and her head fell to her plate.
Little Timmy beamed, “If Nana ain’t gonna eat her pie today, can I have her slice?”

Main meal

Farm Kitchen

Usually, when me and Wifey drink our second coffee of a morning, we try to figure out what to have for our main meal of the day.

Our work day begins shortly after our morning coffee, and neither of us expect to rattle around the kitchen until it’s grub time. Consequently, we need to decide on a menu before we get too involved with somethin’.

Our decision this morning, about our main meal, was a tough. This is how it went:

 Wifey: “What do you feel like having for dinner today?”

Me: “Anything’s fine with me. What would you like?”

Wifey: “Fried chicken? Do we have any left?”

Me: “Two pieces were left after our meal yesterday. And I ate one during the late news. When the sports reports came on, you ate the other.”

Wifey: “Oh.”

Me: “I don’t know; you think of something.”

Wifey: “Go peek in the fridge, and see what we’ve got.”

Me: “Okay.”   *Ambles from the breakfast table to the refrigerator. Swings open the door and looks inside. *

Wifey: “Well?”

Me: “How come we have a brand new container of sour cream, and one that’s practically empty?”

Wifey: “The old one has gone sour, I think.”

Me: “Huh? Ain’t that what it’s supposed to do?”

Wifey: “Get outta there and look in the freezer.”

Me: “Okay.”   *Shuts refrigerator door, and opens the door to the freezer ompartment.*

Wifey: “Well?”

Me: “You want some fish for dinner?”

Wifey: “No.”

Me: “Want a pork chop?”

Wifey: “Nope.”

Me: “You wanna go someplace later, and eat?”

Wifey: “Too expensive. We’ll have something right here.”

Me: “I gotta cut scrub today, I wouldn’t minds a sandwich after I’m done.”

Wifey: “Salmon salad?”

Me: “On some a that 12 grain bread we got at the bakery the other day?”

Wifey: “With a small tossed salad, on the side?”

Me: “And a couple of chocolate chip cookies for afters?”

Wifey: “Sounds like a good idea.”

Me: “I love it when a plan comes together.”