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Flying Spaghetti

www.jungleredwriters.com Ready or not, here it comes!

Ready or not, here it comes!

Possessed food and a burnt offering permeated the air. One thing is certain; our family dinners were never dull.

Like The Jeffersons, we were move’n on up. Dad finished our kitchen, dining, and living room upstairs. With our basement rooms still intact, we now had two kitchens, dining, and living rooms. I felt rich.

Mom’s first meal in her new kitchen was memorable. As much as she might try to forget it, we made sure she remembered. Mom preheated her new oven. Ten minutes later the smoke alarms screeched. We inhaled the charcoaled remains of the oven instruction manual, conveniently placed inside by the manufacturer.

Our long dining table sat in front of a huge picture window overlooking our backyard, fields, and the distant Adirondack mountains.

Sue, Paula, David, Dad Around the dinner table a few years later. 1972.

Sue, Paula, David, Dad
Around the dinner table a few years later. 1972.

Mom and Dad sat along one side of the table, Sue and Paula on the other side, and David and I sat at each end.

“Why don’t you and Dad sit at the ends?” I asked.

“We prefer to face the picture window and enjoy the beautiful view,” Mom explained. “I’m also closer to the kitchen.”

One hot summer day, David sat across from me without a shirt on. Mom served spaghetti. I forked a bunch onto my plate and waited for the meatballs and sauce to get passed. I don’t know what possessed me, but I was not strong enough to fight the urge.

I balanced a wad of naked spaghetti on the end of my fork, took aim, and catapulted it across the table onto David’s bare chest. He stared down in stunned disbelief. Mom and Dad had a fleeting moment of silence.

What is wrong with you?’ they asked in unison.

I didn’t bother explaining that the devil made me do it.

I laughed maniacally as the spaghetti strands stuck briefly in place before slowly sliding downward. David looked up and our eyes met.

Uh oh. I bolted and ran.

I ran downstairs to the basement bathroom and slammed the door. The lock clicked as David pushed from the other side. He drew back, crashed into the door, and splintered the lockset.

www.wikihow.com Sort of like this, but much more lethal.

Sort of like this, but much more lethal.

I assumed my best defensive posture by laying on the floor with my legs kicking at him. As fast as he circled me, I spun around on my back (break dancing before its time). He had to get past my windmilling legs of death.

This worked until the windmill lost its wind.

David straddled me, holding his stomach-spaghetti over my head. I knew what was coming next and clamped my mouth tight. He easily crammed the mashed spaghetti between my lips; they parted while I laughed at the picture of my pasta hanging onto his chest.

We both laughed last, but I laughed best.

Dad and David fixed the door.

Lesson learned: Self-control is not a bad trait, and some urges should be ignored. But I’m still smirking while remembering the look on David’s face as my spaghetti hit him.

Related posts: Chapter Eight: Walking The Plank; Chapter Eleven: Changes and Pies

Now it’s your turn: Did you ever throw food?

© Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures, 2012 forward. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Mary Norton-Miller and 1950s Suburban Adventures with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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