Do you remember Sunday dinners? When the family sat around a table, with a setting for each person? platters and bowl and ladles? family style? always dessert? We reminisce about walking in the door and knowing right away what was going to be served. Literally rivers of gravy were poured over mashed potatoes. The gravy flooded the entire plate, and at the end of the meal would have to be mopped up with a slice of bread. Even though our mothers left their recipes behind, the food never tastes like it did back then.
I'll leave you with this chuckle, hoping that it will inspire all of us to attempt CPR on one of the most endearing customs to ever bless our human family.
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"Sunday dinner with my mother Adah, my father Fred, and my three siblings was always lively. On one occasion all of us, except my mother were in a silly mood and we began requesting, in rhyme, items at the table.
"Please pass the meat, Pete."
"May I have a potatah, Adah."
"I'd give you the moon for a spoon."
After several minutes of this, my mother had heard enough.
"Stop this nonsense now!" she shouted.
"It's Sunday, and I would like to enjoy my dinner with some good conversation, and not all this chatter."
Then she sat down, still in a huff, turned to my father and snapped,
"Pass the bread, Fred."
(Taken from Daily Chuckle archives)
