On Top Of Spaghetti

“Now babe, let’s just talk this out rationally, alright?”

The granite covered kitchen island stood between them, a veritable battlefield. The leftover dishes from that night’s dinner still cluttered the top of it. His eyes flickered to the long wooden serving spoon in her hand, brandished before her like a broadsword. Was she going to…? He ducked as she swung it towards his left ear, then shot up to stare at her as if she’d sprouted four extra arms and a set of horns to boot. She sure did…

What she wouldn’t give for a set of handcuffs and a Billy club right about now! And now he had the audacity to stare at her as if she was the lunatic? Glancing quickly at the island before her, perusing for a new weapon, she lighted upon the strainer of leftover spaghetti noodles. The corners of her mouth lifting just enough to worry him even further; she reached in and grabbed a handful of sticky clumps of pasta. Waiting for him to duck again, she lobbed the limp strands into his face as soon as his head appeared above the countertop again. Bulls-eye!

They glared at each other for a breath, a heartbeat. Then the storm broke in riotous chaos.

Having no more time for caution, he grabbed the large saucepot and flung the cold contents directly into her face. Red rivulets of sauce streamed from her bangs, turning the blond hue a burnt orange. Clumps of ground beef and onions slid down the side of her head to plop onto her shoulder and finally falling to the floor, as she gaped at him. Lifting the pot in front of him like a mighty shield, he ducked behind it and ran for the pantry a few yards away. Just as he slammed the door closed, he felt it reverberate as the garlic bread, a whole half loaf, thumped against it. Then darkness.

Her narrowed eyes took in the closed door with the garlic butter streaked down one side. He couldn’t stay in the pantry forever. She would just make some necessary preparations as she waited him out. With the calculating look of a war commander, she pulled open the fridge, condiment jars rocking and rattling on the shelves. She grabbed the jar of green olives, the ketchup and mustard, the strawberries, a package of hot dogs, and the flat of eggs. After almost closing the fridge door, she jerked it back open and grabbed the leftover enchilada casserole. Everything went onto the kitchen island, jars opened, caps flipped up on bottles, and the trusty wooden serving spoon went into the enchilada casserole. Plucking her apron from its hook next to the fridge, she tied it as she took her stand behind her island of ammunition, and called, “Hey babe, its time to come out of the closet!”

The pantry had a single light bulb with a long chain to pull to bring it to life. In the swinging shadows and illumination, he rushed to the shelves on his right to peer at the contents there. Canned goods and homemade jarred preserves and sauces resided there, from floor to ceiling. That wouldn’t do. He wanted to meet her on a fair playing field, not put a can-sized dent in her head.  Well, at least not in reality…Turning to the middle shelves at the back of the pantry, he found boxed goods, Ricearoni, Pastaroni, dry oatmeal, cereal boxes, and bags of beans and rice. That was more like it. He grabbed the bags of beans and rice and emptied them into his pot. He did the same with the cereal, oatmeal and boxed pastas. As he emptied the last Pastaroni, he glanced to his left and froze. Jars of baked beans and boxes of brownie mixes flickered back at him in the dim swinging light. He opened a jar of baked beans and put it to the side, then tore a hole in the brownie mix bag and set it next to the beans. As he hefted up his pot to rest on his hip, leaving his other hand free to load and reload, he heard her taunting call. He winced at her choice of words. She always did have a way with them. Steeling his back, he set his hand on the pantry doorknob, and turned.

First the olives and strawberries. The green and red orbs flew through the air and hit him in the chest with deadly accuracy, leaving pink imprints on his white t-shirt. She promptly sealed her mouth closed and squinted her eyes as showers of what she thought was a mixture of beans, rice, and Honey Bunches Of Oats rained on her, sticking to her tomato sauce plastered hair like bakery sprinkles stick to the frosting of a cupcake. He seemed to have a rather alarming supply of this mix, so she stepped it up and grabbed the bottles of ketchup and mustard. With a feral shriek, she loaded each hand and shot red and yellow streams onto his legs and newly acquired Dolce & Gabbana sneakers. That got his attention!

The ruins of his shoes were barely visible under the gobbets of ketchup and mustard. He couldn’t believe she went after the shoes! Seeing he only had half his dried goods mixture left, he twisted his body to avoid to worst of the small pig intestine wrapped missiles being launched at him, and reached in to grab the first jar of baked beans. It was the thick kind with lots of brown sugar infused into it, more likely to act as glue as it hit its intended target than the store bought varieties. He set down the pot and scooped out a handful of beans, took aim, and flung the mess. It landed with a very satisfactory splat! right in the middle of her chest. With fevered determination, he scooped more out as she grabbed the wooden spoon, scooped a large wad of enchilada casserole, and pitched it at him with enough veracity to make any lacrosse player envious. 

A lull in the pandemonium, both paused for a moment, their laborious breathing and the wet plop! of various liquids and solids hitting the floor as it fell from their clothing was the only sound in the kitchen, maybe in the world. She shifted her eyes from the mess that was her husband, to the mess that was her kitchen island. She’d used most of what she’d laid there, with the exception of the flat of eggs. It all looked strange, alien, her battered brain not comprehending the dregs of war. She picked up an egg with the utmost care, wondering if she’d handled her marriage with such care would they be having this “discussion” right now? Focusing on him once more, barely recognizing the bag of brownie mix powder in his hands, poised on the brink of being tossed in her face, she dropped the egg. It exploded on the ceramic tiles, the white liquid coating the floor as the yellow yolk oozed more slowly, a sluggish amoeba venturing forth to claim the territory for its own.

He dropped the brownie mix, spraying them both with chocolate flavored clouds. Taking a step forward, he held his arms out in surrender, in supplication, in consolation, and waited. She pressed her body to his, her tomato and garlic flavored head tucked under his chin as he wrapped his ketchup and mustard and enchilada sauce slathered limbs around her, and both breathed in the aroma and stench…of the beginning, of the end.