On Top Of Spaghetti!

We were starving for dinner. It could not start soon enough.

We follow the scent of spaghetti and meatballs through the woods to the Mess Hall. I am secretly hoping that all the bears are hard of smelling.

There is a new song of thanks to learn.
We hear it. We repeat it. We sing it. We sing it in rounds 3 times.

Minutes later we are all chowing down of sticky, steaming, clumped together pasta, rubbery meatballs, and Ragu. Broiled garlic bread. Salad drenched in bottled creamy Italian dressing. Mmm, mmm, good.

I want seconds. I never want seconds.

I stroll in (the In door) ahead of schedule. They haven't called "all the people with any other color than blue pants can go get seconds" or anything similarly segregating.

I have soooooo broken the rules. The kitchen Nazis glare at me incredulously. I am up a creek without a paddle. And no PFD, by the way.

I try charm.

"Hi there! THAT was Fab-u-lous! Would you mind if I had a smidge more? Oh! Don't get up! I can certainly help myself!"

A snarky looking kitchen witch wipes a puss from her face and offers to serve me with Stepford Wife brightness.

As I am extending my plate to receive her reluctant plop of spags and balls and garlic toast I notice a pot of something truly scrumptious siting between the chaffing dishes.

Ratatouille? Oooh! Yumm-o!

I say' "What's THAT? with terrific enthusiasm?

Mrs. Stepford loses the smile and says flatly "That's made special for the kitchen staff."

Oh.

Pardon me.

I smile fakely. "Of course it is."

The Kitchen Nazis have contraband? Like the Baldwins and their darn prohibition era Recipe! I bet they have Chianti too! There is going to be hell to pay. I am wild with disbelief.

Darn it if I can't have the Secret Sauce then I am piling on the little rubbery meatballs! I extend my plate once more. Mrs. Stepford counts out the prescribed number of meatballs and places the spoon in the dish. I keep my plate defiantly in place, unmoved, to indicate that I want more.

She's baffled. A rebel in the scouting ranks?

I don't move. Her eyes meet mine. My turn to hold a lifeless Stepford smile. She hesitates. Still I don't move. I haven't even blinked since I approached the meatball bin. She's looking nervously around for support from the ranks, but alas they are eating. The Earth could crash into the sun and they'd go on eating.

She slowly counts out another serving of meatballs and places them cautiously on my plate, as if they might explode. She looks as if she suspects I will pounce.

I actually may. I think about snatching the contraband ratatouille and running off into the woods. But I know the grey ladies will outrun me on their turf, despite my carb load.

I settle for a two-fer of meatballs and return to the table, grabbing a Dixie cup of bug juice on the way. We have a full evening ahead of us, complete with singing around the campfire.

In rounds, of course.