“Murph!” Mom screamed from across the kitchen, her arms weighed with platters of green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, turkey, and stuffing. “What have you done to my floor?”
“Nothing,” I shrugged, submerging an empty pot into the sink, a grey oily substance, the dregs of Thanksgiving gravy bubbled to the surface.
“Dive! Dive! Lieutenant, the engine room is flooded! Jettison all loosh articles through the torpedo tubesh.”
Hunt for Red October was on Netflix an hour earlier, so I did my best Sean Connery.
“My floor! There’s water all over my nice
recently stained and securely waterproofed floor!”
Bree stood next to a damp cloth in her hand, sighing like an old furnace or an older woman suffering her dotard husband. Somehow recreating the Poseidon Adventure with the gravy boat had drowned the last of her patience.
“Mom,” she sighed. “You’re oldest child is an idiot.”
“Damn the torpedoes, man!” I screamed, as my hands manipulated a ladle between the soapy foam. “Sea monster oft the port bow!”