They stare haplessly at the in-wall ovens that failed to fire yet again. There was always trouble, always excuses at this restaurant.
Rub-a-dub-dub, three fools in a tub…
Yet another Friday had arrived, as had the farmer with his delivery per their contract. With him was a load of produce, meat and poultry, all at a price that would scarcely feed his family and provide for the next growing season.
And who do you think they be?
“Greetings,” he calls as he enters the kitchen door.
Grunts are the only responses.
The eldest, who is standing, finally glances his way. “You’ll have to come back. We can’t open today.”
“The delivery will be ruined in the trek home and back again. It can go in your icebox until tomorrow.”
The butcher, the baker, the pompous decision-maker.
The eldest turns and strides to the farmer. “You’ll take it back and we’ll pay only for what we can use.”
The farmer nods, stepping back toward the door and his waiting cart. “Careful, cousin, it seems the gas’s still on.”
His cousin whips around to face the ovens as the farmer swiftly drags the metal door shut behind him, scraping the ground and catching a spark.
Turn them out, knaves all three.
The Mom Who Runs: 