In 1980 my mom made a tray
of homemade rice crispy treats
browning butter,
melting marshmallows
swirling malted rice puffs
into the sugary fatty slick.
And she set it aside
for her husband's admiration.
But then it called to her.
So she took a table knife.
And she cut the
sliveriest razor thin,
deli meat-thick strip
off the edge of the tray.
Imperceptible.
No one will know.
Surely,
not her tired husband.
And then ten minutes later,
she shaved another slice
off the edge,
this time sashimi thick.
And this process
of winnowing
continued
over the span of
hours
until
all that was left
was a single
two inch square.
Which she transferred
smartly, she thought,
to a bread plate,
and presented proudly
upon his return that night.
He looked at the small offering
and said, "Thanks! Where are the rest?"
And that's the day
my mom learned
if you're going to eat
almost the whole tray
of rice crispy treats
you better consume it entirely
lest there be pesky questions
that have no pat answers.
And so on this day, in 2026
when my daughter made me
"a whole tray"
of rice crispy treats
yet had left a knife lain on the edge
I had to peer in and inspect.
Lo and behold,
the left flank had attrition
which to the untrained eye
might have passed muster.
But I,
the daughter of the chagrined,
and the mother
of a boundary pusher,
knew well enough to discern
an early taste check.
"No one's gunna know"
she retorted,
in the face of
my silent scrutiny.
"They're gonna know,"
I declare.
"Hand me that knife."
