Sunday dinners are always special. Roasts, mashed potatoes, gravy, and real dessert. Not fruit cocktail dumped in a bowl. I couldn't wait to see what we were having today.
As I rounded the corner to the kitchen nook, I spied the strawberry shortcake sitting beside the dinner plates. "We've got strawberry shortcake!" I blurted excitedly to Sherry and Stevie. "Thank goodness it's not that pineapple upside-down cake Mom likes to cook," I thought. I couldn't stand those burnt pineapples stuck to the cake like bricks in cement. Plus, I don't want to eat anything upside down! I think kids have a right to say whether they want to eat their food or not, and especially if it can be right-side up; but daddy feels differently.
"Eat your food!" he commanded at every meal. "We're not wasting this food! Your mother and I work hard to give you kids a decent meal." Then I thought of all of the poor children around the world starving at this very moment; however, I hated cleaning my plate. But, if it meant we had to gag down hominy in order to get strawberry shortcake, then I ate hominy. Usually, I hid disgusting food in my napkin or sometimes I'd just mix it in with the mashed potatoes and swallow real fast so I couldn't taste that horrible, slimy okra . . . or hominy. Today, anything was worth eating so I could gobble up strawberry shortcake with a soft mound of fluffy whipped cream.
Sherry, Stevie and I sat down in front of our plates. I looked at Stevie and a grin winked in the corners of my mouth and spread over my face. With my right hand I plucked a fat, red strawberry off of my shortcake. I held it gently in my right palm. Then I snuck my spoon into my lap with my left hand, placed the strawberry in the spoon, carefully raised it to the table's edge and pointed it at my pesky brother.
Then, at that moment, I heard the sound of Daddy's footsteps in the hallway. "Now," I thought. "Right now if you're ever gonna do it."
So I tilted the spoon back towards my chest like a slingshot, let go of the tip and watched the plump, red strawberry fly. OOOPS! Sherry and Stevie and I looked up to the ceiling right above Daddy's empty chair. The strawberry stuck to the ceiling, pointy end down, ready to fall. "Oh, please God, don't let it fall," I silently prayed. My eyes widened and I gritted my teeth together.
"If it falls, I'm telling," Sherry whispered.
"Me, too," Stevie mouthed silently.
We ate our dinner politely that Sunday. There was no giggling. Stevie didn't jump around in his seat or kick his legs back and forth on his chair in fear the strawberry would fall on Daddy's head like a missile. We listened to Daddy talk about the hotel he ran, and we listened to Mom talk about a black iris she was ordering from Burpee's flower catalog.
Months passed and the strawberry became a wet, discolored stain on the ceiling. I don't know whatever happened to the strawberry. One day it just wasn't there anymore . . . All that was left was just a faded red spot on the white ceiling.
Love this story. In sixth grade we used to shoot green peas and mashed potato balls at our music teacher who always sat with her back to us in the lunchroom. Thank goodness we were bad shots or we could have been in big trouble. Did not have enough sense to know that back then. We just thought it was hilarious.
Posted by: Diane Walker | June 24, 2014 at 03:16 PM