Untitled - daily15
This is my father.
"When's it going to be breakfast?"
"In a minute," my father said, flipping one of the pancakes on the griddle.
"I'm hungry noooowwwww." My brother was a champion whiner. He could draw any word out past its natural lifespan.
"If you can wait for a minute, the pancakes will be done, and then you can eat."
"Why can't I have one now?"
"Because they're all raw and gooey in the middle, and they don't taste very good that way."
"I bet if I were starving I'd eat one like that."
"Well, you're not. You get three regular meals a day, and you can afford to wait a few minutes. I promise, you will not die of malnourishment in the five minutes it takes for them to cook on the other side."
"How do you know I'm not starving?"
"Because you're a normal weight for your age and height and body type, and anyway I didn't see you eating grubs or poaching anything out of the dog's dish or trying to drink the salad dressing." My father clearly had no idea what my brother routinely ate for after-school snacks; unbeknownst to our parents, the rapidly depleting toothpaste supply had nothing to do with any devotion to dental hygiene on our part.
"It feels like I'm starving."
"Don't be so melodramatic. Look, it's just two or three more minutes until the pancakes are done, okay? Go set the table and put out the syrup."
"I want to watch them cook." My brother was one of those kids who always has to be in the way.
"There's nothing to see. They'll be done in a trice."
"What's a trice?"
"Good Lord!...It's a kind of disease. That only afflicts young, inquisitive children." Dad was partial to wacky verbal hijinks.
"Pancakes will make me sick?"
"You bet they will, if you don't shut up and set the table."
"What happens when you get the trice?"
"Uhhh..." Thanks to the early Mass, Dad had only consumed two of his usual three cups of coffee that morning. "You swell up and turn purple, and then you die."
"I don't want any pancakes," my brother said quietly. "I don't want to die from no trice."
That morning, my father actually got to read the paper and eat his breakfast in peace.
"When's it going to be breakfast?"
"In a minute," my father said, flipping one of the pancakes on the griddle.
"I'm hungry noooowwwww." My brother was a champion whiner. He could draw any word out past its natural lifespan.
"If you can wait for a minute, the pancakes will be done, and then you can eat."
"Why can't I have one now?"
"Because they're all raw and gooey in the middle, and they don't taste very good that way."
"I bet if I were starving I'd eat one like that."
"Well, you're not. You get three regular meals a day, and you can afford to wait a few minutes. I promise, you will not die of malnourishment in the five minutes it takes for them to cook on the other side."
"How do you know I'm not starving?"
"Because you're a normal weight for your age and height and body type, and anyway I didn't see you eating grubs or poaching anything out of the dog's dish or trying to drink the salad dressing." My father clearly had no idea what my brother routinely ate for after-school snacks; unbeknownst to our parents, the rapidly depleting toothpaste supply had nothing to do with any devotion to dental hygiene on our part.
"It feels like I'm starving."
"Don't be so melodramatic. Look, it's just two or three more minutes until the pancakes are done, okay? Go set the table and put out the syrup."
"I want to watch them cook." My brother was one of those kids who always has to be in the way.
"There's nothing to see. They'll be done in a trice."
"What's a trice?"
"Good Lord!...It's a kind of disease. That only afflicts young, inquisitive children." Dad was partial to wacky verbal hijinks.
"Pancakes will make me sick?"
"You bet they will, if you don't shut up and set the table."
"What happens when you get the trice?"
"Uhhh..." Thanks to the early Mass, Dad had only consumed two of his usual three cups of coffee that morning. "You swell up and turn purple, and then you die."
"I don't want any pancakes," my brother said quietly. "I don't want to die from no trice."
That morning, my father actually got to read the paper and eat his breakfast in peace.