"Please Pass the Rolls"

Many colleagues have asked to use this story as a mentor text in their writing lessons. I feel honored that you want to and am happy to share it here on my blog for any others to use if they would like.
It is a story I wrote this summer during the week long Columbia writing institute that I took. Just one of many childhood memories that we all have. Now that I have been digging deeper to find my buried stories, many events have become more clear.
Recently, I read Ralph Fletcher's book about his boyhood, "Marshfield Dreams", and it is inspiring me to "Believe" that my childhood memories are worth writing about, to "THINK" that I could write them, and to imagine the day that I WILL "DO" just that! I know I can "live the writerly life"!

Please Pass the Rolls!
By Cheryl Mousseau

I hate liver!
The smell of liver sizzling in the frying pan permeated every inch of the tiny kitchen, and overflowed into the dining room. Plate, fork, knife, methodically I put the 5 place settings on the table. “Supper!” my mother hollered, as she shifted from the pan with the bacon and onions to the pan with the fried liver. My fingers fumbled with the cloth napkins pulling them through the wooden carved napkin rings. Mine was a Scotty dog. Robin, had the horse head and Christie had the bunny. My mother was the duck and my father was the owl. I wrinkled my nose up at the smell. These napkins wouldn’t go a few days without washing after this meal. The thought of the disgusting liver was making me sick. My Scottie dog napkin ring stood confidently by my place. His tail erect, his little head facing towards my plate, as if he were eagerly waiting for this delicious meal.
If only he would eat my liver.
The homespun tablecloth hung softly over the edge of the round table. Everyone sat in their usual places. My father on one side, my mother closest to the kitchen, my two sisters doubled up between my mother and father. I had my own side opposite my sisters. The table seemed cramped and crowded now, with people, plates and food. My mother had placed candles on the table and struck the match to light them. Candles were for special occasions. I didn’t think liver was very special. Supper was late that night and my sisters and I were already in our flannel pajamas. I squirmed in my chair and tucked my slippered feet up under the rung beneath my seat. Slowly I picked up my fork and pushed the liver around on my plate. I crunched on my bacon and moved the liver to another spot. My mother glanced over and sighed shaking her head slightly. Cutting the tiniest piece I could, I stabbed it quickly and popped it in my mouth, reaching for my glass of ice cold milk. Swish, swallow. The pendulum on the wall clock went tick, tick, tick. The liver was still there. It looked bigger than before. How was I ever going to finish this?
My gaze fixated on the basket of rolls across the table. Rising slightly out of my chair, I reached my pajama clad arm out and grasped a roll with my fingertips. The next thing I remember hearing was my mother’s scream. It was as though I was in a dream. Everything happened so quickly but yet in slow motion. Yellow flames shot out from my wrist and forearm, appearing as if from nowhere. Just because of the liver. Just because of the candle. Just because of reaching instead of saying “please pass the rolls”. In that split second, the focus changed from my avoidance of eating the liver to the dangerous consequence of reaching across a lit candle. Reacting quickly, my mother grabbed my glass and instantly cold milk had doused the flames that hungrily licked at the flannel pajamas. I didn’t smell the liver anymore. All I could smell was charred cloth and my own burned flesh. My sister was hysterically crying. My father carried her out of the room. I didn’t cry, I didn’t move, and at first my arm didn’t even hurt.
It hurt plenty in the days that followed. Wrapped in gauze and ace bandages to protect it from infection, my second and third degree burns took a long time to heal. The reddish purple scar shaped like a map of some foreign land remained a constant reminder of proper table etiquette, and I still hate liver!