Yellow Dinner

In which I'm reminded that everything's all right.

When was I supposed to take the roast out of the fridge again? An hour ago my mother called, and we spoke over the din of three-year-olds and toddlers playing circus with the pet cat, who didn't seem like a willing participant, or maybe it was cowboys and Indians, or both. In any case the cat is hiding on the ledge above the stairs again, the living room furniture is host to a half-knocked over collection of stuffed animal spectators, and the roast is still uncooked.

The hunk of trussed up meat stares at me from the depths of the refrigerator, indignant in the cold white light. It'll be mac and cheese and sausage again tonight and I can feel my hopes of a healthy, photo-worthy dinner slipping away.

I'm trying to get the finicky gas stove lit when my toddler runs in, grunting and whining and pointing. "Use words!" I say in the kindest tone I can muster, failing miserably, but it doesn't matter because he can't hear me over the whining. He wants a spoon, so I give him one, fully resgined to the fact that I likely will not see it again for several weeks until the day my rear end finds it poking up from the couch cushions. At least he runs off, happily waving his spoon, taking the grunting with him. I'm still pretty pissed off about the roast.

My husband passes through the kitchen. "What's for dinner?" he asks, and I say, "Sausages." Nonchalantly he replies, "Can you make some eggs instead?" and this time I manage a kinder tone, "Of course." Eggs can be photogenic. I'll put parsley on top.

I'm putting food on the table and somewhere there is a spoon knocking against something and making a tick-tick sound, and I'm suddenly reminded that I did not get to clipping my son's fingernails today, and there's no hope of doing it after dinner when the pre-bedtime crazies hit. I'm slipping, I can feel it.

Everyone is eating. The meal is decidedly not photogenic (there's far too much yellow) and if I'd tried to put parsley on the mac and cheese I'd have never heard the end of it. So we eat yellow pasta and yellow eggs and I steam about it.

Everyone is eating and I'm mad. My husband reads my face like a book and catches my eye, then winks. He does that thing with his eyebrows that makes the toddler giggle and my heart just melts. There's cheese sauce in the kiddo's hair and he's adorable.

Everyone is eating. I look around the table, at the yellow food, at my family's perfectly satisfied faces. I feel God's grace. I'll make the roast tomorrow. For lunch.