Food? Where?

“Mom? What is going on? Why aren't you typing yet?” Dobby asks entering the kitchen.

Mom is looking through one of the upper cabinets.

“Oh Dobby you scared me!” Mom says looking down at the ginger colored tabby.

“You're thinking about that rooster again aren't you?” Dobby asks.

“You would be too. I'm traumatized. Where's that tonic the therapist sent over?” Mom asks.

“You don't need that stuff Mom.”

“Maybe if I just eat something.” Mom says heading to the fridge. Dobby follows and they both look inside.

“I don't know Mom. I don't really see anything in there. When did you cook last?” Dobby asks.

“I cooked on...Monday!” Mom answers proudly. “What do you mean you don't see anything? Mom starts taking plates and bowls housing leftovers out of the refrigerator and setting them on the counter. Some produce out of the crisper too. “See kitty? I found supper.” Mom smiles.

Dobby jumps up on to the counter to inspect the “bounty”. Sniffing at a covered bowl he says, “This doesn't look very fresh Mom.”

“What do you mean? These are perfectly good green beans.” Mom says taking the lid off of the bowl.

 “Except those beans are furry and...purple.” Dobby answers.

“These beans have definitely been in the refrigerator longer than a week. Well, I know this has not been here longer than a week.” Mom removes plastic wrap from a dinner plate. “Meatloaf” she pronounces showing off her culinary creation. “This is the first meatloaf that has been in my home in over three years.”

“Dad always made the meatloaf, didn't he?” Dobby sniffs at the meat cautiously. “I don't think it's supposed to smell like fruit Mom. Or alcohol.”

“It smells like rotten fruit?” Mom sniffs, “Oh my goodness.” Mom makes her own face. “That settles it. No meat tonight.” The meatloaf gets put into the discard pile with the furry, purple beans.

“At least I have...dessert. I thought I had dessert.” Mom holds up a misshapen brown ball. “This was an orange. At least we know what happened to the meatloaf.”

“What is this that's left?” Dobby asks sniffing at something ugly and brown.

“This is a potato and it's still...good. I'm baking this critter before it spontaneously combusts. While it's baking, I'll tell you about my traumatic experience.”

Dobby rolls his eyes. “Don't be a pussy, Mom. Quit exaggerating.”

“I am not exaggerating, seriously. If anyone is a pussy, Dobby...”