Saturday night and the smell of Mom’s fried chicken--
crispy, crunchy, and fried golden brown.
With Idaho’s best mashed, white chicken gravy, and the
ever-present bowl of peas,
our plates are heaped full.
Placemats will show the remnants all week.
"Where’s the bone plate?", mumbles Dad through greasy lips.
"I’ll get it," I say on the way to the kitchen.
The frying pan sits among the oil splatters.
Boy, how I wish we had that dishwasher.
I return, plate in hand, to the slaughterhouse carnage.
The gnawing of bones and licking of fingers replaces all conversation.
Soon, the bone plate is overflowing and the potato bowl nearly empty.
The peas alone await on the plate.
"Great dinner Mom, and kids EAT YOUR PEAS!", demands Dad as
he heads to his throne.
Stealthily, Tim slips his to our dog, Pretzel.
I force mine down with lots of cold milk.
Terry tries and gags at the effort.
"Remember the starving children in China," Mom says with a smile.
We offer to send them our peas.
Terry wails, "Why no peas for Dad?"
--Ted Baechtold
