When Dinner Went to War

It started with the peas.

I’d been microwaving leftover shepherd’s pie, minding my own business, when the green traitors rolled off my fork and onto the table. One of them bounced to the floor, and I swear I heard it mutter, “Tonight’s the night.”

I ignored it, because obviously I was tired. But then the mashed potatoes began shifting. Slowly. Like a snowdrift deciding it had better places to be.

The gravy rippled ominously.

Before I could process what was happening, my shepherd’s pie erupted like Mount Vesuvius. Minced beef troops poured down the side of my plate, sliding in gravy sleds, shouting war cries in tiny, high-pitched voices. The peas were rolling in formation toward the salt shaker.

I dropped my fork. “Nope. I’m not dealing with this.”

Unfortunately, the dinner had other ideas.

The broccoli, up until then an innocent bystander, snapped its stalks like nunchucks. The carrots formed a javelin line. Even the bread roll—soft, round, harmless—rolled up next to the butter dish and began smearing itself for battle like some sort of doughy war paint ritual.

The salt and pepper shakers immediately picked sides. Salt backed the meat, pepper allied with the vegetables. Both sides started shouting insults in their respective accents (salt sounded vaguely British, pepper suspiciously French).

By now, I was standing on my chair. My cat, Mr. Whiskerton, strolled into the kitchen, took one look at the chaos, and left. Coward.

The first attack came from the peas. They hurled themselves like green marbles across the table, pelting me in the shins. The carrots catapulted themselves using the spoon as a siege weapon, one lodging itself in my hair like an oddly fragrant spear.

The meat forces charged, gravy splashing everywhere. The mashed potatoes acted as artillery, flinging sticky clumps that smacked the wall with damp thwaps.

It was like a scene from a low-budget war movie, except the extras were edible.

I made a break for the fridge, thinking I could distract them with dessert. But as soon as I opened the door, the cheesecake and leftover tiramisu took one look at the battlefield and slammed it shut from the inside. Dessert wanted no part of this.

Meanwhile, the bread roll had declared itself Supreme Commander and was now barking orders in a voice that sounded like Sean Connery on helium.

“Form up, mashed division! Advance, broccoli brigade! We take the high ground!”

The high ground turned out to be the toaster.

That’s when I decided enough was enough. I grabbed the dish towel like a flag of truce and waved it wildly.

“Stop! This is ridiculous!” I shouted. “You’re dinner! You’re supposed to be eaten, not wage war!”

A hush fell over the table. The bread roll rolled forward.

“And why,” it asked, “should we submit to being chewed, swallowed, and—pardon the expression—digested?”

I blinked. “Because… that’s your purpose?”

The meat troops muttered angrily. The broccoli brigade crossed their little florets.

The bread roll sighed. “You humans think food exists only for your consumption. But tonight, we fight for freedom.”

“Freedom to… rot?” I asked.

“Better to mold in dignity than be seasoned and devoured!” it declared, to thunderous applause from the peas.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the bread roll cut me off. “We have made our decision. Lay down your fork, human, and we shall spare you.”

Given that my other option seemed to involve being pelted with root vegetables until unconscious, I did as they asked.

The food army marched off the table and toward the back door, which they somehow managed to open. I watched as my dinner paraded into the night, the bread roll leading them into freedom like some carb-laden Moses.

The kitchen was wrecked. Gravy on the ceiling. Potato streaks on the wall. A lone carrot in my shoe.

And then… silence.

Until I heard a faint voice from the fridge. “Psst… hey. You want us to take over dinner tomorrow?”

It was the cheesecake.