It’s 10:30 A.M. on a Sunday morning; the kitchen is humming with TLW (The Little Woman) cooking dinner for later in the day. At this point in time she pulls out a tray of meatballs she’s been baking in the oven.
One of the meatballs has my name on it, and has been calling me since 6:30 A.M., seductively aromatizing my nose to the sweet childhood memories in Brooklyn on a Sunday morning. “Joseph,” it calls out to me, “come and taste.” Like a song of a siren, beckoning me to meatball land.
The question for me is: “How?”
How do I get a meatball, how do I get around TLW, how do I do these things and not get caught? A strategy has to be devised, a plan of attack drawn up, a scheme or plot envisioned, all for a meatball. I can wait for her to go to a store, she always does, but that might take too long.
I can wait for her to bend down into the refrigerator, and while she is busy in there, swipe a meatball and take the chance of burning the roof of my upper mouth, burning my lips and/or getting sauce on the stove, my shirt, the floor leaving a telltale sign. All options are either messy or risky. I have only one option, one I hadn’t considered, one that made no sense to me, nor did it offer me any challenges.
“Toots? Can I test one of your meatballs?”
TODAY IS POST #400 FOR DELBLOGGOLO!
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