Mom is in our closet-sized kitchen
cooks supper, bus-ta-la-zula soup

a stick-to-your-ribs mix of thick
noodles and brown baked beans

Dad, us four kids are ready to dig in
I wonder if this will be the night

I catch that tell-tale twinkle in Dad’s eye
At meal’s end, he solemnly pronounces:

Tonight, we celebrate the world’s
greatest baseball pitcher, hitter

He thrusts high a six-inch Baby Ruth bar
Ceremoniously presents it to my mother

Mom wields her kitchen knife like a surgeon
slices the bar into six equal, one-inch pieces

My mouth waters, anticipating the
first taste of that tan caramel center

its sprinkle of nuts, surrounding
cover of delicious hard chocolate

I extend the savory moment by taking three
equal bites each lasting about a minute

My brother Dick devours his piece
faster than the speed of light

then gawks longingly at my
two remaining mini bites

Sisters Addie and Rayne stare,
hesitate as if seeking permission

finally daintily indulge, taking more
bites than my carefully measured three

Mom and Dad exchange happy glances,
a joyful moment worth a busted budget

I drift to sleep that night thinking
this has been a really good day