Tiptoed down early on a Sunday morning. Brewed a cup, grabbed the radio and newspaper, snuck toward the screen porch. “M-o-m-m-m, can we have quiche?” Quiche?!? Oh drat-a-tat-tat, he was up, lurking, ready to pounce with his breakfast order. Quiche?!?
Quiche we had. Handmade dough and all. He picked around the crust. Kids will break your over-achieving heart. Perhaps, perhaps, he is absorbing my efforts, my willingness to rise to an occasion, to seize upon a tasty opportunity, to pursue and ensnare – to the best of my abilities – anything fun. Those things within my grasp. A loose grasp, that is. Not trying to strongarm this life of ours.
What I had in mind was more along the lines of a blank sandwich. You know, blank lines. Imaginary. Or, if your imagination gets carried away, loses its mind, a do-it-yourself sandwich. I know he is capable.
Twice there has been a clarifying, and eye-opening demonstration. Eye-peeling demonstration number one followed the “That’s fine. You can eat yogurt for dinner for the rest of your life, as far as I am concerned.” He rose to the occasion. Levitated to the kitchen in a I’ll-show-you huff and fixed himself a …. sandwich. Hot ‘n all.
Second eye-opening, and heart-heating, demonstration followed the “Oh, I’m hungry and I’m too pooped to make myself anything.” It was late-ish and I would have staggered off to bed not too long thereafter with breakfast on my mind. “I’ll make you something, mom.” What?! WHAT?! WHAT?! He did. Fixed me a sandwich. A hot sandwich.
Perhaps, perhaps, before too long, I will be able to leave work in anticipation of a dinner-smelling house. I can’t really remember that. Forgot about such a thing, in fact, till I heard mention of it in a radio story. Coming home to a delicious dinner. How essential, how elusive.
I’ll take a sandwich. It need not be hot. With soup.
The Lunch Encounter 