"What are we going to eat for dinner, babe?" My question is directed toward my husband.
"We've got leftovers, Mom." College daughter gestures to her friend, paintbrush in hand, as they sit at the dining table painting gaming figures. "Yeah, we have food left over from lunch at the Italian restaurant," her friend concurs.
"But we don't have leftovers." My husband makes a few suggestions, most of which are still in a frozen state. "That's not going to work this late," I say. He says something about making a salad, shrugs, heads back into the garage to continue working. He's obviously not hungry at the moment, so I'm left alone to stand in front of the fridge and pantry. Nothing seems to be appetizing, so I chat with the girls for a few minutes.
Looking back in the fridge again, it hits me. "I think I'll have an onion sandwich. Is that okay with you?" I say to my husband, back from the garage. "Sure, go for it," he replies. "Guess a goodnight kiss is off the list for tonight," I joke back. He smiles, and our daughter comments, "He must really love you!".
"I've missed painting," she continues, as I gather ingredients at the kitchen counter. "They don't offer it every semester at college, and I didn't get a chance to sign up."
As I sink my teeth into white bread, copious amounts of mayonnaise, and thinly sliced salted onions, I silently thank my mother for my gastronomic heritage. Irish artist that she was, she would approve, this eating of an onion sandwich and painting simultaneously happening at the table.