Sundays

"We're cooking that dish you like..where we cook on the table," mom says. My mouth is watering because I can picture the set up and already smell the butter melting on the electric griddle. It is set up in and around an assortment of thinly sliced raw beef, scored calamari, and jumbo shrimp. There is a tangy pineapple sauce nestled next to plates of lettuce, cucumbers and rice noodles. The table is glowing and warm.

 

"Have you eaten yet," she asks.

"Not yet. I'm doing a little work today. I might pick up something on the way home."

"Well, eat something good. It's getting cold here. Hold on, your Dad wants to talk to you."

"Okay"

 

I can picture the little rolls of rice paper are out too, lying next to freshly picked spears of mint leaves.

 

"Hi D. You watching the game tonight?"

"Of course"

"Good, I think Peyton is going to cry again."

"I Hope so. How is the kitchen looking?"

"It's okay, maybe by the time you come home for Christmas, it'll look brand new."

"Yeah, I'll buy my tickets soon."

"Okay, be good. Talk to you next week."