Dinner over. Plates cleared. Time for a little something sweet at the end of the meal, not an everyday happening at this house. My turn to cook the meal, since Matt and Heather’d just returned a few hours earlier from their five day jaunt to Columbia.
To affirm their healthy choices and celebrate their time in the land of the exotic, I prepared fresh fruit for the finale. Slices of different melons, strawberries, grapes, blueberries filled the platter like an edible still life. Someone stole the mango earlier in the day, leaving behind skin, pit and juice splotches on the counter. No mango tonight.
As I placed the platter in the center of the table, Basil exclaimed in a voice too loud,”That’s not dessert. That’s fruit! Can we have the ice cream you bought us?”
Now his folks knew all was not kale and hearty-y while they were away. If quizzed, I’d argue, it was hot outside and this is a grandparent’s prerogative.
Fruit stayed at table, served up with tales of travels. Basil satiated, grinned while juice dribbled down his chin as he swallowed the last bite of watermelon.
That’s my favorite!” quoth the Basil evermore.
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