< by JHK >

Spaghetti sauce gurgled in the oven.
It represented hours of cooking gone by, and hours of dishwashing to come. The smell of tomatoes and garlic filled every nook of the house.

When dinnertime arrived, Ann set the table. I took the drink orders. After filling four glasses with milk, everyone gathered for prayer.

Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest.
Let this food to us be blessed. Amen.

I followed mom back into the kitchen. She retrieved the sauce and closed the oven door with one bump of the knee. Meanwhile, I drained the noodles and transferred them to a platter. Ann and dad waited at the table, forks poised.

As I stepped through the kitchen door, I outstretched the platter to display the feast. In a voice that smacked of Julia Child, I bellowed, “BON APPETIT—”

SPLAT.

The noodles wriggled around my feet, slippery and listless. I had slanted the platter too far.

For a split-second, everyone fell silent. Just as I feared the worst, mom burst out laughing.
Years later, they still call me Spilly Jilly.