Marinara Mayhem

Don’t even think about asking me to prepare dinner on Friday night! After a long week in the classroom, I am worn out. A few years ago, I might have managed dinner and a movie. A change of pace, even when you are bone tired can do you good . . . but not these days. My more recent response has become, “I’m too tired to go out. Let’s just order in.” And so we did.



Jett’s pizza has a divinely, decadent bacon bread that George and I recently discovered. It comes with marinara sauce for dipping. We usually request an extra sauce as it comes in a very small container and we never like to run out. And this is where I should have listened to Mother.


Growing up, we were never allowed to eat in any room other than the kitchen. Don’t dare walk in the living room with a cookie in your hand. No food in the bedrooms. All food was kept in the kitchen. I even raised Jamie that way. It was the rule. However, after Jamie went off to college George and I began to carry our snacks and occasionally dinners to our upstairs TV room. That was the case on Friday night.


The doorbell rang; food was delivered and promptly carried upstairs. We ate and enjoyed a show from our Tivoed queue. Relaxed and sated, I began to clean up “the mess.” Napkins, pizza box, paper plates, and condiment containers were stacked. Down the stairs, the carpeted stairs, I went. And then it happened. The tiny little container of leftover marinara sauce slipped, perhaps jumped, from my hands and apparently leapt from stair . . . to stair . . . to stair. (Little known fact: Marinara sauce reproduces and multiplies as it flies through the air and makes contact with a woolen surface.) My pant leg, the stairs, the spindles, and the hardwood floor of the entry-way were covered in red. “Oh, pooh,” I said. “What a mess.” Or something like that.


A rag would not do. It was going to take water, and lots of it. I filled a bucket and began to clean. Each time I thought I was through, another splatter of red would appear. The front door, even the living room carpet hadn’t escaped. (Did I mention I had already had a hard week?) The worst spots were in the cracks, between the carpet and the wall. You may still see a hint of red there the next time you visit.


George, conveniently, had been taking a shower while I “cleaned up” from dinner. As I emptied the bucket of blood red water he made his way downstairs.


“Why are the stairs soaking wet?” he asked.


“You don’t want to know.” I replied.


I actually tried to describe the full extent of the mess to him, but I could tell he didn’t get it. You probably don’t either. I should have taken a picture, but I didn’t. George kept saying how small the container was. How it couldn’t have held that much. He thinks I’m prone to exaggeration anyway. Humphf! We sloshed back up the stairs and managed to enjoy the rest of the evening.


Saturday morning, I walked down the still damp stairs. The nap had a new appearance, but there were no remnants of red . . . until I looked up. The ceiling had large splatters of red, the woodwork around the dining room arch was spotted, and yes, the dining room carpet was freckled too. Never in the course of human history had so much been done by so little. Had the Brentwood Police been called in, I would have been cuffed and carted away. Surely a massacre had taken place. Undoubtedly, I will become a suspect in any future crimes. They’ll bring in that infra-red light that causes red to glow in the dark, and I won’t stand a chance defending myself.


I have a tough week ahead. Students begin taking the state standardized tests. It’s stressful, and come Friday night, I’ll be faced with a choice. I think just maybe, we’ll go out to eat.