The Davinci ceramic Last Supper hung off kilter.

            Our last suppers occurred in the late 1960’s. The twelve of us, Mom, Dad, six sisters, four brothers, sat at a long leafy table. We were across from each other, not on one side like a Davinci pose. Our attention could not span that far anyway. We would eat day-old bread for dinner if we could dip it in wine. No wine, or wining allowed, for that matter.

            Dinner began with a Catholic staple of “We thank Thee, Lord, and these our guests…” With head bowed and one eye mobile I did not see any guests, and after the ‘amen’ neither did we treat each other as guests. We were not mean or rude per se; we were familiar.   

            Our mother dispensed etiquette, but it was more like behavior modification. Remedials on where elbows should rest. Lips were to be kept sealed with dramatic sign language. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she’d say.  She held court on how to wield silverware. Forks weren’t for pitching and spoons weren’t for shoveling. I won’t even mention knives.

            Please and thank you bounced around the table like echoes in the Alps. “Please pass the goulash. Please pass the cottage cheese. Please pass me some bread and butter.” Pleas of ‘please’ dwindled down like the last popping kernels of corn. Eating was the primal focus, for the food evaporated quickly. The faster we gulped our ‘firsts’ the greater chance of securing ‘seconds.’ It wasn’t food scarcity, but overpopulation.

            “Clean your plate” was directed before we actually “Cleaned our plates.” No food left behind. Eat everything served, even the peaches and pork chops.

             Then, no one asked to be excused. FOMO (fear of missing out) kept everyone screwed down. With the food consumed, the reason to keep our mouths shut no longer existed. My mother completed her one task of entertainment. A macaroni stuck on her blouse beyond her line of sight. We nudged each other, pointing our eyes with a smirk. Ah, the great Matron of Macarone.

            Then stories spilled out of us, often simultaneously. Getting a word in edgewise wasn’t the goal, sledge-wise was. We used our one mouth and two ears disproportionally. Comic relief stood on its head and became the chief operating system. If no one was laughing on the floor uncontrollably, we remained shackled to our silliness until a victim succumbed. The crown jewel was someone leaking their composure on the hard wood floor.

            Yes, dinner was an actual thing, but it wasn’t the thing. It was as if all I can remember was the frame of the picture. The events which happened around the food was mealtime. I filed those stories in the freezer of my memory. Every now and again I’ll pull out some laughing matter to thaw, and the belly quakes begin. The retelling of any event was a masterclass on embellishment.  

            Like the time John spewed milk all over the buffet, or was it, Marge? Or the laughing gas which reverberated down the wooden sill on which three sisters sat. They juggled the blame as if the three of them were fartwiliquists. Never mind the flicking of spaghetti.

            Mom eventually tapped her cigarette like a gavel and gazed up at the tilted Last Supper.

The benediction: “Straighten up, get the table cleared and kitchen cleaned. Right. Now.”

            The chaos of comedy shifted into post meal chores. We were butlers and maids, resetting the dining room, and putting the micro kitchen to rights. My mother, on tip toes straightened Last Supper. “Lord, please pass the peace,” She prayed, smiling.

I’m writing 600 words when prompted. This prompt was from a friend.