Warming the Leftovers

First, of course, you write about the noodles, about how they're steaming up the kitchen and making the light on the windows much too bright.  You write about the crimson smell of your leftovers, about the sauce, goddammit, that you spilled all over the counter and floor, about the cracked dishes and mismatched silverware and apparent lack of napkins. You don't worry, given the obvious time constraints, about getting the words down perfectly.  You don't even worry that much, if you're being honest, about scorching the sauce or rubbering the noodles, because this feels good, this feels right, and the noodles can wait, the sauce can wait; everything, for five fucking minutes, can just sit back and wait.

Your daughter, messing with the cat in the dining room, is probably going to get scratched.

Your son, sneaking away to pursue another level in his video game, doesn't really want you to stop.

And your husband, quietly fixing something, is most likely looking forward to your sauce.  And the noodles?  Well, they are finished now.  And the sauce is ready.  And the children are calling.  And it's time, at last, to set the table and eat.