Mr. Write's Page

A couple of months ago, my ex-wife Deanna sold her house in Phoenix and moved back to Georgia. Specifically, she moved to Jefferson, where our son Dustin and his family live. Where I live.

No problem. Deanna and I have been divorced for 20 years. We get along fine. Everyone in the family, including me, knew that returning to Georgia was the right thing for her to do.

In fact, it became inevitable when our other son Britt and his family moved from Los Angeles back to Atlanta, too.

That did it. Deanna packed up and moved east. She is now settled in and playing grandma at every opportunity.

Just before Christmas, I stopped at Deanna’s place to say hello to the Jefferson granddaughters, Sarah and Maddie, ages four and seven, who were spending the day there. When I walked in, the girls were sitting down at the kitchen table to eat lunch.

Lunch that day was Swedish meatballs with pasta, one of Maddie’s favorites. Sarah had never tried it, and she was balking.

“I don’t like it,” she said with a sour expression.

“Try it,” Deanna told her. “It’s really good. You’ll see.”

“No thanks, I don’t like it,” Sarah insisted, pushing away the plate.

“Don’t be silly, Sarah,” I chimed in. “You won’t know whether it tastes good or bad until you take a bite.”

“I already know what it tastes like.”

As a responsible adult, I felt compelled to apply logic to the situation. “Okay, I admit it isn’t pretty,” I said, “But if you haven’t tried it, you can’t tell what it tastes like.”

Sarah glared at me. “I already know what it tastes like,” she insisted.

“Baloney,” I said. “How can you possibly know?”

“Because I can taste with my eyes.”

That ended the conversation. She got up from the table and wandered off. Sarah is a light eater anyway.

Whether she tastes with her eyes literally or figuratively, we weren’t able to determine.

Swedish meatballs. I can almost taste ‘em.