Today: Spaghetti and Peas

Something in his face seemed more urgent, more intent than usual.

In all other respects, it was a Wednesday night like so many others. Spaghetti, peas, and garlic bread for dinner. Had you asked me at the time, I might have said that it was a safe dinner, the kind of meal you knew that everyone would eat with little in the way of whining or sulking. Even Grace—accustomed to a nightly hunger strike—could be counted on to ingest at least half a pound of noodles, staining her chin red with marinara sauce in the process.

We had been sitting at the table for a few minutes, when Carver first turned to me with a look of concern in his eyes. His finger probed the upper reaches of his right nostril. While not exactly pleasant, nose-probing certainly wasn’t an uncommon sight at our table. I took it in stride listening as Rachael began rehearsing the day’s events.

After a second, I leaned over to Carver and coaxed, “Carver—bud, take your finger out of your nose.” I glanced up quickly afterwards to demonstrate to Rachael that I was still listening. She didn’t appear to have noticed anything. When I turned to Carver a minute later, the excavation continued unabated. “Carver, remove the finger.” I asked a little more sternly. He complied momentarily. But the shadow of concern never left his face.

I turned back to the business at hand. The spaghetti wound itself obediently around my fork. Then, while reaching for the bite, Carver’s face hove into view. His nostrils flared expansively. His eyes, tightly crossed, widened and then focused on the tip of his nose. Rachael kept talking. I nodded mechanically, only periodically making eye contact.

Suddenly, he started snorting, not the playful sort of snort one makes when inhaling mid-laugh. No, it bore more resemblance with the sound made by an enraged bull. And like a bull, Carver appeared to have every intention of clearing his “nasal passages” of all blockages, and he wasn't taking prisoners. Rachael continued talking, and I would have nodded, but this alarming turn of events now commanded my complete and undivided attention.

In fact, the display so completely captivated me that it didn't dawn on me until much later, that like Pompeii to Vesuvius, I was in the blast zone. One thing, however, was clear. Carver wasn’t fooling around. These were not mere trifling efforts. Whatever it was that had moved him to action, I knew that he meant business.



Unfortunately, I underestimated his determination and lacked the foresight to cover my food, which perilously blocked the path of detritus exiting his nose. Again and again he blew. Was no one else seeing this?! Then mid-frenzy, he flung out a chubby right-hand in desperation and caught my arm, smearing sauce up to my elbow. I looked down briefly uncomprehendingly. Rachael’s voice cut in and out of range.

Suddenly, following a collosal blow, a bright green missile shot across the table and hit my plate with a dull thwack. Carver dislodged a pea. (Don’t ask me how it entered his nose in the first place.) The whole ordeal ended then as quickly as it had begun. Carver looked at me with a big smile and grabbed another handful of noodles.

"And that's why I told them Saturday would work best for us," Rachael said looking very pleased with herself. "What do you think?"

"Heh . . ."