Chapter Five
in Which We Share a Smackrel

      I like to cook and so most of the time I do. However, I occasionally tire of fixing proper dinners; a proper dinner being one that wears sensible shoes, if you know what I mean. Meat and Potatoes and Green Vegetables and the like. Proper dinners are good for you, in a balanced sort of way. A bit of something from every group served up on a proper dinner plate with a glass of milk on the side.
      My mother served proper dinners in casserole form. A casserole being a sort of group hug for the four food groups. This would normally be a good thing, seeing as you only have one dish to wash, except that the group hug is such a bonding experience that a good portion of the casserole stays behind and only hours of therapy can get it to let go.
      Fish, lean pork, and skinless chicken are very sensible things to eat, so I usually marinate them overnight or cook them in lots of butter. Wouldn't want too much of a good thing, you know.
      And then there is pasta. A lovely Italian invention for gaining weight. Pasta, which means something like "to paste to one's ribs", comes in all shapes and sizes and is especially good smothered in any number of different sauces. When it comes to sauces I especially like to make a rich, red sauce with mild Italian sausage, black olives, green peppers, Romano tomatoes, fresh garlic, a splash of Bordeaux, a pinch of oregano and a fistful of Basil. And of course, no pasta meal at the Heinze's is complete without Pilsbury Breadsticks brushed with melted butter and garnished with fresh pressed garlic.
      Dinner at the Heinze's is actually quite interesting and varied and, if I do say so myself, quite tasty. However, there are those times when I just can't  get motivated to prepare dinner, proper or otherwise. When nothing seems worth fixing Lisa and I look at each other and say, in a questioning sort of way, "How about a smackrel?"
       A smackrel is Pooh-ese for "a little bit of something." For Lisa and I it means wandering up and down the isles at Food Lion and picking out little bits of somethings. Lisa is particularly fond of those tiny ears of corn, while I prefer a tin of smoked oysters. In the end we each have a half dozen or so little tins of this and little jars of that. It's not particularly nutritious, in a proper meal sort of way, but it is particularly friendly to weary spirits.

(The House At Pooh Corner by A. A. Milne; E.P. Dutton & Co., New York; 1956, p.58)

      A smackrel night is a pleasant sort of habit for Lisa and I. Perhaps because picking out silly things and calling them dinner is an adventure and a little frivolous and quite a bit child-like. But it is that break from the routine and the commonplace and the everyday that makes it special. It is a shared meal served on crackers and little bits of toast with a nice bottle of something from Robert Mondavi's vineyard. No hot stove, no pots or pans or proper dishes to clean, just a little bit of something shared with someone you love.
      "On the night in which he was betrayed our Lord Jesus took bread.... This is my body given for you. This is my blood shed for you."
      The words of institution are an invitation, an invitation to partake in a pleasant sort of habit; a little bit of something that is not particularly nutritious, and certainly not filling, but somehow mysteriously refreshing for the weary soul. So take and eat and tomorrow, get back in the kitchen.