sympathizing with my beige cluster of orphaned noodles grieving their red sauce

i asked my grandson

if he were going to eat the tomatoes loitering on his plate

his father my son eyebrows raised

oozed disgust at my bold insinuated request

granted my son didn’t almost die of starvation

no that was his adopted sister

maybe it is because his sister is my daughter

maybe it’s because I gave shots to other malnourished potbellied nicaraguan children

maybe it’s because I’m a daughter of parents who hungered through the depression

maybe it’s because as a child I couldn’t leave the table until I had a crumb-less plate

maybe it’s because I feel guilty about food I still waste

maybe it’s because food waste is 8% of the climate change problem

maybe it’s

rototilling the garden to plant

hoeing and pulling weeds

securing tomato plants to wire cages

picking and smelling those red wonders

assembling adequate canning jars, rings and lids and sterilizing them

maybe it’s chewing juicy BLT sandwiches

maybe it’s trying to squeal “I get the juice” before my big brother

maybe it’s savoring a celebrating-spaghetti dinner gift on christmas eve

maybe it’s not finding my tomatoes in aisle 5

or maybe it’s the bible passage about the crumbs falling from the master’s table

all I know is that you can tell me about the evils of germs and lecture me on ill manners

and I’ll tell you what I find horrifyingly unhealthy

i’ll shamelessly explain how mother earth parented me into minding my manners

                                                                                                                  Dona Palmer:  July 24 2021