Yellow Dinner

Photogenic dinners are a poor metric for success.

When was I supposed to take the roast out of the fridge again? An hour ago my sister 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.