Eating Over

If eating at our house was an adventure, eating at a friend’s house was often a lesson in patience.

I adored spending Friday nights at my friend’s house, but every Friday night, my friend’s family ate tuna casserole. I hated tuna, but I knew that the next day, my friend’s dad would make pancakes. It was an early version of that marshmallow test for delaying gratification.

Then there was my sister, who had a friend whose parents wouldn’t let her have junk food so my sister’s friend had a safe full of Fritos and Oreos in her room.

When one of my older brothers was little, he had a friend over. Mama started cooking dinner.

“What’s your mom cooking? It sure does smell good!”

“My mama doesn’t cook, she just opens.”

“Well, d’you think I could eat over here tonight?”

“Sure, she’ll never notice one more, you just sit next to me.”

Well, Mama, to her credit, noticed that Bobby was another body at the table. She did enjoy having lots of people at the dinner table.

After my father said the blessing, everyone dug in. Bobby set his fork down with a firmness much greater than his years.

“Boy, it sure did smell good, but, boy, it sure don’t taste good!”