One Sunday night we came home late from church. Marilyn and I were tired as we always were late on Sunday evenings.
Four-year old Rickey wanted to know what was for supper. That, of course inspired three-year-old Timmy. “Yeah, what’s for supper?”, he echoed his brother.
I tried to convince him they weren’t really hungry and that we’d all better just forget supper and go to bed. But it didn’t work. They were not to be denied.
I did a little scouting. “I don’t see much boys, ” I said discouragingly, my head deep in the interior of the refrigerator. “Don’t you think maybe this time we should just….”
“I’m hungry,” moaned little Rickey. “Me too,” chimed in Tim.
This would never do. There was nothing in here that would be quick to cook. Just odds and ends of leftovers. This called for some creativity.
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