|By Julie Rowan-Zoch|
Here's the Food Fight rules:
I started a story below which stops where a food fight is breaking out. But I need your help. Please read the story and any comments to date, then add a comment which grows the story, includes one thrown item of food, and one word of onomatopoeia (which has not yet been used!) Then over the weekend, I have to wrap up the story with one last comment. Together we will write a story!
You can comment more than once on a story, however, you cannot follow one of your own comments...someone else needs to comment before you can comment again. Have fun!
Fancy Food Fight, by Lauri Meyers & all of you
"Eek!" Timmy squealed as he entered the swanky restaurant. Daddy froze like the plaster statue standing in the waiting area. Mama's bulging eyes reflected the white tablecloths at Chez Italiano. She grabbed Timmy's hand and started backing out the door.
"Don't be silly," Grandma said. "A lady only turns 95 once, and I simply must have my handsome grandson here with me to celebrate."
"Timmy's not a neat eater," Mama said. His spoon tended to catapult peas, and his bowl was more like a watering can. If he had three mouths, he would probably still miss one. Mama always put four shirts on him at dinner, so she could peel one off when it became messy. Still, Timmy was always excused from the table naked.
Grandma put a white cloth napkin on Timmy's lap and pinched his cheeks. Timmy loved his Grandma. She smelled of pancake syrup, and her hugs were like lying in a warm mud puddle (something he enjoyed very much.) He would try his best to make Grandma's special dinner nice.
Timmy nibbled tiny bites of his garlic bread like a bunny. He peeked at his napkin - clean! He slowly slurped small spoonfuls of Italian wedding soup. He looked down at his four shirt - dry! He gave a quick fist pump of pride, but his elbow came down on the end of the spoon and catapulted a mini meatball through the air.
The meatball smacked into the cheek of the baker, Mr. Frederickson, causing him to choke briefly on his garlic bread. Surprised by the insult the baker looked at the butcher, Mr. Jones, who had soup on his spoon. Mr. Jones nodded politely at Mr. Frederickson.
Timmy wiped his sweaty palms off on his napkin and reached for the safety of garlic bread. The slice required a tug, but he lost his grip. The loaf landed right on Mr. Jones head, raining crumbs in his hair. Mr. Jones looked at Mr. Frederickson who made a face just a little too snotty to be innocent.
Mr. Jones grabbed a two foot French bread and threw it like a javelin at Mr. Frederickson. The baker, who was obviously trained in avoiding oncoming bread, ducked just in time. The spear careened over his head and into the chest of Ms. Adams, who was leaving with a takeout order. Ms. Adams, not one to allow bread down her shirt, carefully removed the lids from her order and threw one each at the baker and the butcher.
When you are done here, stop over to the Write Routine to play in more food fights!