The Platter is Not a Metaphor

“What is this?” he said, leaning backward dangerously as he balanced on the counter.

“You’re going to fall, and when you do I’m going to laugh, and then probably have to call 911,” she replied, ignoring his question.

He placed one hand on the cabinet door and steadied himself. “When did we get this and what is it for?”

She spared a glance for the large misshapen platter he was brandishing. “We’ve had it forever. I don’t know; I think your aunt gave it to us.”

“Yeah but what is it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s one of those stupid egg plate things, like people use at Easter. Your mom has one. It looks like a bunny.”

“For deviled eggs?” he asked.

She nodded, warming her hands on her coffee cup.

“How come we never use it?”

“Why would we?” she asked.

“I like deviled eggs,” he informed her.

“So wait until Easter and compliment your mom on her recipe. Maybe she’ll send some home with you.”

“Or,” he said, sounding as though he had just stumbled upon an important scientific discovery: “You could make some.”

She stared at him, the look on her face informing him that his proposal was not going to be approved.

“What?” he said. “It can’t be that hard. You just… I dunno, boil eggs? And then mix the yellow part with other stuff? Do we have any paprika?”

“What are you even doing up there, anyway?” she asked, possibly hoping to distract him with a different subject. “If you’re looking for the Oreos you hid up there three months ago, I ate them.” She turned to walk out of the room. “I ate them like two days after you hid them.”

He made a sound that properly expressed his outrage, but she was either too far away to hear or was ignoring him. “You can make it up to me by making deviled eggs!” he called.

“Do it yourself!” she called back.

He carefully climbed down from the counter, bringing the deviled egg platter with him and muttering mutinously. “I can’t believe you ate my Oreos.”