We have in our home a special sandwich, a culinary anomaly so fierce and bold only one person dares eat it, its very creator: Declan. This is a sandwich that is confident, impulsive, and doesn't listen to the advice of others.
When you ask Declan what he'd like for lunch, and he decides he wants this beast that is only spoken of in whispers by the rest of the household, time stops. He'll respond with a jaw set in stone, eyes ferocious, lip curled as his fist punches the air and his throat growls savagely, "A dragon sandwich, please." Hot wind swirls through the kitchen, rustling papers and curtains and hairstyles that haven't been moussed down or spiked up. Lightning strikes the counters and refrigerator, and you have only moments to gather the materials and put them together for the dragon child.
And then it's there, on the table, plated and sliced in rectangles or triangles as Declan wishes. A feast for the beast, my mind tells me. Two slices of bread work to sandwich together the unholy marriage of peanut butter and cheese. He is pleased. This will do.
Today as I walked away to tidy my hair and wipe down the scorches that had marred the kitchen where lightning struck, I heard an ominous warning from the boy at the table: "One day I'll ask for a Dragon 2." I turned to look at him, my eyes wide with fear. He licked peanut butter off the corner of his mouth as he finished his thought, "Cheese...and jelly."
1 comment:
rofl. i love you.
but that sounds totally disgusting.
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