Ham. Ham with breakfast. It makes sense, particularly back in the early 60's when breakfast wasn’t breakfast without meat.
So when he saw the ham in the fridge, he thinks, both to himself and then aloud, “I’d love to have some of that ham with breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“No,” she tells him. “That is for dinner tomorrow. It hasn’t been cooked. We’ll have the leftovers with breakfast the day after.”
“But I want ham with breakfast tomorrow morning,” he demands.
And tempers begin to rise.
Four little sets of eyes watched, four little sets of ears listened....quietly. To have interjected a comment would have meant a possible beating and a certain early bedtime.
The argument ensued. The night passed tensely.
Next morning. She is up before everyone else, as always...working hard in the kitchen, as always.
He stumbles sleepily in to the kitchen with the children, where a hot breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes and more sits steaming on the kitchen table. He looks around pointedly, and asks, “Where is my ham?”
And she snaps.
She walks to the refrigerator, takes out the platter with the uncooked ham, sticks a fork in it, and slams it down in front of him.
“There’s your ham!”
Then she stalks out of the room, down the hall to her room, and WHAM! the door slams shut. Click. It locks.
Four little sets of eyes look down the hall, then back at him. His face starts to redden, anger building. He looks down the hall, then back at the ham.
Suddenly, he starts to yell, “Aaaagggghhhh!” as he lifts the ham, platter and all, and four little heads duck as he throws it across the room with all his might.
The kitchen window is open, and he is a better shot than he intends to be. The ham flies through the window and bounces down the driveway, as astonished neighbors watch curiously.
The famous flying ham story. He’s chosen to forget it ever happened. Four now adults remember every detail. They tell and retell the story every time they are together. It’s tradition.
This reminds me of my corn story. Except no corn was being begged for, and it kept being pilled on.
Anonymous said…
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I'm trying to get back in the habit of writing every day. Lately, I've been working on character sketches. Some of those will find their way here, in the form of individual comments to this post.
Comments
So when he saw the ham in the fridge, he thinks, both to himself and then aloud, “I’d love to have some of that ham with breakfast tomorrow morning.”
“No,” she tells him. “That is for dinner tomorrow. It hasn’t been cooked. We’ll have the leftovers with breakfast the day after.”
“But I want ham with breakfast tomorrow morning,” he demands.
And tempers begin to rise.
Four little sets of eyes watched, four little sets of ears listened....quietly. To have interjected a comment would have meant a possible beating and a certain early bedtime.
The argument ensued. The night passed tensely.
Next morning. She is up before everyone else, as always...working hard in the kitchen, as always.
He stumbles sleepily in to the kitchen with the children, where a hot breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast, potatoes and more sits steaming on the kitchen table. He looks around pointedly, and asks, “Where is my ham?”
And she snaps.
She walks to the refrigerator, takes out the platter with the uncooked ham, sticks a fork in it, and slams it down in front of him.
“There’s your ham!”
Then she stalks out of the room, down the hall to her room, and WHAM! the door slams shut. Click. It locks.
Four little sets of eyes look down the hall, then back at him. His face starts to redden, anger building. He looks down the hall, then back at the ham.
Suddenly, he starts to yell, “Aaaagggghhhh!” as he lifts the ham, platter and all, and four little heads duck as he throws it across the room with all his might.
The kitchen window is open, and he is a better shot than he intends to be. The ham flies through the window and bounces down the driveway, as astonished neighbors watch curiously.
The famous flying ham story. He’s chosen to forget it ever happened. Four now adults remember every detail. They tell and retell the story every time they are together. It’s tradition.
Families.
ciao,
Tom