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| You see food. We see . . . |
Yesterday’s blog reminded my Husby of something.
If you haven’t read that post yet, you can do it here.
Then we’ll all be on the same page.
So to speak.
Ready?
Moving on . . .
In Grant’s small community, Church socials were a highlight.
Tables groaning with delicious food.
And best friends.
An eight-year-old boy’s finest moments.
But once the ‘eating contests’ and trips to the dessert
table had reached a point that even eight-year-old boys are satiated, what’s
next?
Well, there’s always . . . imagination and creativity.
And, trust me, when boys are that age, the ceiling’s the
limit.
Quite literally.
Grant and his cronies had stuffed themselves.
The only things left on their slicked-clean plates were little
pickled onions.
That no small boy would be caught eating.
Ever.
One of them picked up a small onion and put it on his spoon.
The others watched, horrified.
Was he really going to . . .?
He turned his spoon and . . . flipped it.
The onion shot across the table.
Landing with a small, wet ‘sploop’ (made up word – but expressive).
Everyone stared.
Hey! That looked like fun!
Instantly, four small onions were placed on four small
spoons.
Flick.
Four little, pickled projectiles shot off in different
directions.
It was fun!
“Let’s go for distance!”
Four more onions.
Four more spoons.
Flick.
“Mine went further! Mine went further!”
“Let’s go for height!”
“Wait, we need provisions!”
A short raid on the pickle platter.
As astonished parents looked on.
Then:
Four more onions.
“Ready?”
Flick.
“Oh, wow! Look at how high Grant’s went!”
Grant’s did achieve more height.
And, because of that, greater distance.
It shot across the room and landed in the plate of a man
seated opposite.
A man who was still visiting and eating.
And not really noticing what was on his plate.
The unsuspecting man speared the onion and popped it into
his mouth.
Chewing happily.
Never knowing where the onion had come from.
The four small boys crowed with delight.
It was the highlight of their evening.
Vainly, they tried to duplicate the feat.
Raining little onion balls down on unsuspecting heads.
Finally, one of their little missiles actually . . . hit . .
. someone.
Game over.
Instantly.
After that, the little pickled onions, which had usually sat
forlorn and forgotten on the buffet table, were the first to go.
What doesn’t disappear into the mouth, will still . . . disappear.
Ask any small boy.
