My father was arrested on casserole night. We had just sat down at the dining table, the walnut shone with a coat of fresh oil. Baked tuna and milk wafted from the orange rectangular stoneware that served as our centerpiece. My mother was holding my father's hand to say grace when we heard the knock. I remember his eyes. He knew who was at the door before my mother opened it. I have not eaten a casserole since.
PS 365 2012 Disclaimer:
All stories written for this blog's 2012 project are works of fiction.
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