My mom used to make the best spaghetti sauce on the planet. As you know, she doesn’t any longer, because now
Kroger and I do.
One time, it was all ready to go on the table except for the onion toast. We didn’t have garlic toast. Onion butter is made from a pound of Oleomargarine (when you were buying the cheapest generic, that was how it was spelled) and an envelope of onion soup mix. Then you spread it on any leftover bread in the house, and put it under the broiler til it’s toast. Yum.
At this point, she realized no one would be able to eat dinner without some, now forgotten, item.
Fortunately, the grocery was so close, she might send me to walk it, if she found we were out of toilet paper, after she was seated.
We slammed the oven door and reminded my uncle and the stepdad, who were doing some mysterious garage/man/fixit thing, to keep an eye on the toast.
For reasons that are lost to the mists of time, I went, instead of staying to watch the toast.
Upon our return, Uncle and stepdad raise their heads from what they are doing. Slowly, their eyes grow larger. Neither moves.
Mom realized what happened first and bolted for the front door.
I was first on her heels as we rounded the corner into the kitchen where the glass front oven door showcased the fully involved onion toast.
For a moment we laughed too hard to put out the fire, but just laid the tray on the stove top and watched it burn.
I am writing according to prompt #2 — “What one memory from your childhood always makes you smile, no matter what?” @Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop.
What memory makes you smile?