House of Falling Plaster

On the way to Kentucky I picked up fifteen pairs of corncob holders, in transparent jewel-tones of blue, green, yellow, and red. This little acquisition was one small part of a larger vision: family time, gourmet meals, a Traditional Home cover story of perfect order.

Friday was the big night, with real china on the table, corn on the cob simmering, and tomatoes and cucumbers sliced and chilling..

Bechamel sauce was made,  the Pyron's shitaakes were sizzling, and squash and zucchini cubes were checker-boarded across the counter. The lasagna pan was lightly buttered; the ice water pitcher was out.  And it was six p.m. and Mason and Phil and the rest of the lasagna ingredients were nowhere to be found.

As a diversion, the rain came, first one in the entire parched July, and with it went a stampede to the front porch. Children of all ages ran toward the thunderheads, ozone scent, and much-needed shower bath.  A wet dish towel --once  white-- was trampled on the kitchen floor. The recycling container tipped over and its contents fanned out exhibition-style.  The oven beeped alarmingly that it was time to cook.

Almost instantly the sit-down dinner was transposed to snacks on the front porch. Silas and Sylvie were allowed to eat whatever they wanted. Somebody found the corkscrew. Zucchini was shoved aside to make room for slicing cheese and heaping crackers in a bowl.

Afterwards, Matt sat at the empty dining table and read Monster Museum to Silas. It was a lovely night reclaimed.  Silas listened attentively. Matt read with great expression.  As the story ended, Matt's full glass of red wine tipped and rolled. Red stuff spread across the table cloth and dripped slowly on to the carpet.

The next day Kent removed the shower door from the main bathroom to replace it with a new one from Lowes which measured as a fit, but didn't quite. An extracted shower door, drill, and pry bar stood patiently waiting for me to try the dinner a second night. As I held Sylvie and waited for the pasta to bake, she wet me through her diaper with such enthusiasm that it trickled down my leg and into my shoe. I fanned myself dry, changed to my flip flops, and the dinner  came off as planned.

That night there were  ten of us in the house. All bedrooms, including the Room of Falling Plaster, were full. I took a look around, considering all angles that the Traditional Home staff might want to photograph. The recycle bin was full, but upright.  The upstairs tub was dripping but operational.  The side porch swing, which had fallen Saturday when three of us tried to sit on it,  was resting comfortably in the grass. Laundry was drying on the porch rack, and on the porch rail, and on the porch floor. The dishwasher needed to be emptied.  Everything was just about perfect.

Photo clockwise: Phil, Mason, Minda, Sylvie, Kent, Matt, Em, Liz. Silas is under the table and the photo was taken by Ira.