The Bloody Doors Off

Spaghetti is a bugger to relearn.

You need your front teeth to bite off the excess noodles. And because you’re concentrating on chewing with just your back teeth, a few strands tend to slide down the esophagus. Which you have to cough up. Or stick your fingers down your throat.

I don’t recommend the second option.

No I didn’t do it.

But i know enough not to recommend that course of action.

There’s definitely a heightened sense of self-awareness.

I’m failing at everything.

The boy is in his room, talking with his friends.

Marlo is indisposed, and Maddy is phone surfing the internet.

While I write about eating spaghetti.

I should be trying to gather everyone and start an activity.

You know, like families do.

Or did.

Okay, not everyone does.

My parents didn’t.

The closest we came was Sunday night dinners with my mom’s parents, followed by a game of Rumoli (look it up), and a snack of toast and jam with tea to wash it down.

It was very British.

My grandparents emigrated to Canada during the second World War. Which I think makes my mom a first-generation Canadian? There were stories that their boat was hit by a submarine torpedo, but they still managed to cross the ocean to Canada.

My dad’s family is from Luxembourg, and came over a few generations earlier.

And for 3? generations, the Kosters have worked backstage at live theatre venues.

If you count writing and producing plays, that’d make it 4.

…

Okay, I lied about reaching down my throat.