Sunday dinner with my mother Louise, my father Fred, and my three siblings were always lively. On one occasion all of us, except my mother were in a silly mood and we began requesting, in rhyme, items at the table. “Please pass the meat, Pete.”
“May I have a peas, Louise?”
“I’d give you the moon for a spoon.”
After several minutes of this, my mother had heard enough. “Stop this nonsense now!” she shouted. “It’s Sunday, and I would like to enjoy my dinner with some good conversation, and not all this chatter.”
Then she sat down, still in a huff, turned to my father and snapped, “Please pass the bread, Fred.”
She was not amused when we all burst out laughing.