Based on a breakfast. . .
“You have a plethora, a variety of cereals. I only have one I like,” Kay sobbed from the pantry as she discovered I polished off her box of fruit and nut.“Stop eating my cereal!”
Ignoring her scolding words, I look straight ahead and bring another heaping spoonful to my mouth. Droplets splatter into the ceramic white bowl below. This sure is some good granola, especially drenched in unsweetened vanilla almond milk.
My OCD prevents me from opening new bags or boxes when there are already ones open. Unfortunately my wife’s contradictory memory loss precludes her from remembering the countless times we’ve thrown out food because it got moldy or stale, particularly when I didn’t eat it after she complained I eat everything she likes.
I do feel a little bad about causing her frustration finding her favorite salsa container empty, grandma’s homemade cookies gone, or whatever turns up mysteriously missing when she finally decides to look for it, coinciding with the precise moment I’m done eating it. . .not that bad though.
There are a variety of supermarkets within a couple miles of our house I’m willing to drive to for whatever she’s disappointed is missing. And they’re rarely, if ever, sold out of the targets of my wife’s ire. Not to mention, I end up at the store three or more times per week anyway. I spoon another bite into my mouth and chew.
“You still haven’t bought more of %*#+.” I couldn’t make out what she’s saying due to the delicious crunching of the cereal in my mouth. Our pantry and cabinets are full. We spend more money on food than anything else, and I work in food service, consistently bringing back delicacies of packaged and prepared foods and dessert for the family.
I don’t tell my wife any of this. I know better than that. I just continue enjoying the fruity, nuttiness of breakfast.
I’d offer to head out immediately to the grocery store, but my wife would refuse. She’d rather live in hunger and resentment instead of patiently waiting the half hour it takes me to return from the store with whatever it is she wants.
“Dad, why you always eating Mom’s food?” right on cue, my daughter chimes in from her bedroom. The kid will require another snack in a matter of minutes. I can’t recall my wife ever noting when the child had eaten all of any of her food. I drag the tip of my teaspoon around the bottom of the bowl in an attempt to collect the last soggy grains of my goodness.
Finally, I tip the bowl back and sip the last drops of milk. I stand up, look to my daughter, then turn to Kay. Without a word, I walk over to the sink and rinse the spoon and bowl and stow them in the dishwasher. That certainly was a delicious breakfast.
Breakfast served by John Andreula
Graciously edited by Kodid Laraque-Two Elk