Luckily, we have a lot of vegetables.

The historian is doing a Sunday crossword puzzle.

I am replacing one page in my manuscript with a corrected page, as I have just discovered that there is a leftover word with a strike-through in it. The strike-through is there because the word was supposed to have been deleted, which is what the strike-through meant. I am also trying not to think about the fact that I have recently sent this manuscript with its unassuming yet nefarious, possibly malicious, strike-through word to at least a dozen places. Ugh.

Son and his friends are downstairs watching an unviewed season of Scrubs. Friend of Son, who is like a son to me, comes upstairs with a dish to put in the sink.

Friend of Son, who is like a son to me: I ate some of that potato pie. It was good.

Historian: What would you call that, sweetheart? would you call it potato pie?

Me: I would call it "Tortilla Española." But it had feta on it, so it was unorthodox. (pause, to contemplate how pretentious I just sounded, what with that ñ and all.)

Friend of Son: (polite laugh:) Well, it was good.

Me: Are you a tomato eater?

Friend of Son: Yes, I am.

Me: It's good with some tomatoes by it.

Historian: It was really good.

Me: (small and invisible preening, after which I resume inserting the page at the scene of my recent strike-through humiliation.)

Friend of Son: (without a word, picks up half-eaten bag of Lays Wavy potato chips in the red bag; makes for the stairs.)

Me: . . . So that's how it is around here.

Friend of Son: (sound of laughter disappearing down the stairs.)