Life, actually…

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THE DAY OF GOULASH AND GALOSHES

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I am a mere eight years old, in memory green.

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Some days I feel that eight-year-olds only come in groups of meres. One day I hope to become more than mere.

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I lie still, hiding in early morning bedclothes as I drift upward, slowly ascending from a deep sleep and even deeper dreams.

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In my dawn slumber I am swimming in a sea of heavy rubber galoshes. The galoshes change size and distance as they surround me. I try to grab one to try it on. Maybe wearing galoshes will help me survive this fantasy.

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Then, suddenly, I am awake, relieved by reality in the tiny bedroom.

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I examine my surroundings. All is well. The galoshes I wear on rainy treks to school sit right by the closet, safely dry and patiently awaiting my small toes.

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When I follow the sounds and fragrances of breakfast, I find my mother multi-tasking in her kitchen. Each stovetop burner is bubbling into life a different surprise. Grits and eggs prepare themselves under her watchful eye, biscuits call out from the oven as they transform from doughy to fluffy.

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On one burner, a covered pot produces its own aroma. I wonder what it contains.

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“Goulash,” Mother proclaims. “We’re having goulash for supper.”

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My mind, just having suppressed a multi-galosh attack, immediately imagines a cauldron of steaming rainwear. Will the end product be chewy and tough?

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I race back to the bedroom and grab the tattered dictionary, so filled with mysterious words and meanings and spellings.

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“Soup’s on!” Mother calls. Now I’m really confused. Does she plan to serve a stew of galoshes? That can’t be, my struggling-to-grow-up brain tells me.

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There it is! The dictionary reveals all! Goulash does not ordinarily contain shoe fixings, so I won’t be dreading suppertime all day.

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I return to the kitchen and help Mom set and serve for us three kids.

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To this day, the special flavors and textures and odors of a lovingly prepared fast-breaking homecooked meal can make my stomach rumble in anticipation.

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I finish eating just as Mom says, “Better get you galoshes. It’s going to be a wet walk to school.”

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My eyes widen. I bravely go to the bedroom, glancing deeply into the rubber footwear for signs of goulash. I sit on the floor and poke my shod feet into the dark interiors.

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I am now girded for the next adventure

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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.

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