truth-telling lasagna

speak the truth, even if your voice shakes
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Is is already Friday Saturday??  I haven't cracked Eat My Scabs all week!  Holiday traditions, cookie baking, drinking Mexican Cocoa, walking around the holiday lights here, finding snow in Arizona here and other holiday fun have left me with little time to write, but I've had a story brewing in my head for a few days, so, here it goes.

A story about truth-telling lasagna.

One day, not too long ago, Mr. Scabs had been caught in a nonsensical lie of omission.  Meaning, he didn't tell me something important.  The kind of lie where you just {shove it under the rug}, {stuff it in the closet}, or use the {ignore it till it goes away} method.

This little {slip of memory} came to light one evening while I was spreading ricotta cheese and sauce on noodles, making lasagna for dinner.

Like conjoined twins, addiction and lies are born together, attached at the chest, sharing one black heart.  Their birth into the world is perilous and there's a slim chance of survival if they are separated.

I'm sympathetic to the compulsion of liars. There was a time when I was a liar.

I told stories, exaggerations and fabrications.  Lying became natural...they spilled from me like poison, infecting myself with a liars heart.  This blight spread to all I knew and I became lost.  So lost and disoriented that I didn't even know my own story.

I understand what pushes us to lie.  I also understand what pushes us to tell the truth.  I have a gigantic amount of hope that Mr. Scabs is finding that freedom.

But, there are still moments.

Like anyone who's been lied to, I was sick to death and completely intolerant of any kind of {untruth}, {fib}, {misrepresentation} or {blank stare} accompanied by endless {i don't knows}.

Fully coherent to the task at hand, I spread another layer of sauce.  Another layer of zucchini and cheese.  Another layer of lies!  Why?  Another layer of utter frustration!

Instead of pulling my hair out and screaming, I breathe.  Thank you yoga.  Breathe and feel.

I hear the clanking of plates being set on the table.  My family gathers around, kids switching out big forks for little forks, Mr. Scabs fills the glasses with ice.

With the ring of the oven bell, the lasagna is done, smelling savory delicious!  Setting the pan on the table I announce,

"This is truth-telling lasagna."

Our daughter giggles and I see a side-ways glance from Mr Scabs.

Repeating myself with more confidence,  "We're eating Truth-Telling Lasagna tonight."

All eyes are on me.  My kids excited for whatever story I'm going to tell and Mr. Scabs visibly nervous.  I explain, that tonight we are going to share some ideas about honesty in our lives and especially in our family.  Then I point to Mr. Scabs and I say, "Your father is going to lead the discussion."

With the enthusiasm and single attention of children, our kids excitedly turn to their father ready to soak up whatever he has to offer.

Mr. Scabs is genuinely a good sport.  With a few interjections from me, some personal stories and funny animations Mr. Scabs talks in humility about telling the truth.

Scooping another helping of Truth-Telling Lasagna onto their empty plates I sit back and watch this impromptu moment.  Observing Mr. Scabs humbly teach his children about his greatest life struggle.  It was oddly beautiful.

We ended dinner with a short clip from the sit-com The Middle,
thanks to our friend Beautiful Mess.