14 April 2016


Lasagna isn’t a traditional food.  It is a favorite which isn’t served very often at our house.  I don’t cook it.  My sons do.  And it’s very good.  Good enough that if I had to make it, I know it wouldn’t be as good.  We have it maybe once every month or so.  It’s one of those kind of dishes that takes too long to make.  Whenever we have it, we have to call Grampa down to have some.  Sometimes, we make this and other foods just call him here cause we like to hear his stories.  On occasion though, no matter what we say, he’ll just be a mosquito.  *Eat and run.

One day, he’d come in for Lasagna and garlic bread.  Happened to be one of those days that the pan wasn’t a very big one and he wanted a second piece.

“Make some more then.”

Nolan, who doesn’t communicate like most people, by which I mean one has to know the body language he uses, told him he didn’t have the ingredients.

“Mil?”  Father’s eyes implored me.

“Sorry, Dad.  Nolan made it.”

“Well, why can’t you make some?”

“He just told you that we didn’t have the ingredients.”

“He didn’t say anything,” while trying the beady eye look to no effect on either me or Nolan.

“John!”  Father knows that upon occasion, we’ll do what John says.

“What?”  John walked into the kitchen bringing in his plate that had a portion of lasagna on it.

“Tell them to make some more.”

“Make some more, woman.”  John likes to occasionally tell me that he thinks I should be the subservient Mrs. Cunningham type person from his days of trying to learn what we saw in those ‘Happy Days.’  At my raised eyebrow and Nolan’s crossed arms, “Can’t Grampa,” and starts to make a hasty exit stage back where he came from.

It finally sinks into my poor Father’s head that he just isn’t going to get any more lasagna.  His face falls and he starts to get ready to head out whereupon he spots John’s plate which John was trying to hide behind his back.  He hadn’t moved fast enough in backing out.

“Give me that.”

John reluctantly gives him one of the four squares he’d heaped upon his plate.  “Geez, Grampa.  Here, have one of mine.”  Whereupon Grampa happily settles back to enjoy another slice of lasagna.  “A grandson who loves his Grampa very much.”

Nolan and I look at Mom who’s been sitting there trying hard not to laugh.  Too late, we all bust out in laughter.

“What?”  Father is licking his fingers by now, satisfied and ready to tell us a story.

“Nothing.”  John nods his head and goes back into the living room, glad to have pulled a fast one on me and Nolan who are in the doghouse for not making some more lasagna.  I shake my head, knowing very well that John had planned on putting us in that cramped little building.

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