Guilty Pleasure
When all seven of us sat around our red and white kitchen table,
there was barely enough room for any of us to move. Mom, nearest
the stove got up often, serving usually fish or wild game and garden-
grown vegetables. I, nearest the dish cupboard, was the designated dish
or silverware retriever when an extra was needed. We’d say please pass
this or that and use towels instead of napkins. We’d chat about our day
and Dad would talk about the Pittsburg Pirates or Steelers, hunting
and fishing or gardening. When Dad would burp, Mom asked,
“What do you say, Jim?” And he’d say, “Buuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!”
and his five girls giggled. When done eating, we’d each ask to be
excused and we’d leave one by one, except for Dad, of course,
who did whatever he wanted. Mom and I were usually the last ones
to leave. I ate more slowly than my sisters and Mom always had
a late start. She’d take some extra time, especially with spaghetti.
She’d reheat it because she liked it hot. She’d twirl it around her fork
and sometimes assist a stray strand with a piece of butter bread.
She’d close her eyes, savoring slowly, making yummy noises
and saying how good it was, but she knew she wasn’t supposed
to eat it, being diabetic. It was a guilty pleasure—one of the few
things she did for herself despite it being bad for her…or was it?
When all seven of us sat around our red and white kitchen table,
there was barely enough room for any of us to move. Mom, nearest
the stove got up often, serving usually fish or wild game and garden-
grown vegetables. I, nearest the dish cupboard, was the designated dish
or silverware retriever when an extra was needed. We’d say please pass
this or that and use towels instead of napkins. We’d chat about our day
and Dad would talk about the Pittsburg Pirates or Steelers, hunting
and fishing or gardening. When Dad would burp, Mom asked,
“What do you say, Jim?” And he’d say, “Buuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!”
and his five girls giggled. When done eating, we’d each ask to be
excused and we’d leave one by one, except for Dad, of course,
who did whatever he wanted. Mom and I were usually the last ones
to leave. I ate more slowly than my sisters and Mom always had
a late start. She’d take some extra time, especially with spaghetti.
She’d reheat it because she liked it hot. She’d twirl it around her fork
and sometimes assist a stray strand with a piece of butter bread.
She’d close her eyes, savoring slowly, making yummy noises
and saying how good it was, but she knew she wasn’t supposed
to eat it, being diabetic. It was a guilty pleasure—one of the few
things she did for herself despite it being bad for her…or was it?