The Last Supper

Early on at the Mooney Family Farm George called for another one of his grand Community Meals. A group message was sent out to everybody, letting them know supper would be held sometime the following afternoon or evening. Exact times were no longer given because everyone was always late anyway. Especially George.

On the morning of the big day, both kitchens were already in full throttle maximum overdrive, but the battle had only just begun. Presently, there was a motley assortment of religious folks all living under one roof. George saw nothing wrong with his unplanned social experiment and figured a community meal would help to bring everyone together.

The Adventists had completely taken over George’s side of the house, and the kitchen was off-limits to everybody but them. They were forced to follow a diet according to the rules of their church, and they were strict: No meat, no dairy, no eggs. Not even honey. Lorna, a serene, homely woman sporting one solid eyebrow and a strip of dark hair above her upper lip, had taken it a step further and had jumped on the gluten-free bandwagon. And no booze, either. Satan’s mouthwash, it was called.

In the other kitchen on the Newerish side of the house, Darlene was cooking up a storm. Every single dish and utensil was in use, messing up all the counters and the big table. Pots simmered on the stove, and she had something in the oven. She was an avid spokesperson for Christ, namely the parts that involved imbibing in the drink. It wasn’t even noon yet, and a few empty beer bottles were lying around and a full one was in her hand.

A few other residents had shuffled downstairs earlier to make breakfast, grumbling when they saw the food frenzy and went right back to bed. The day before, Eva had taken over the kitchen canning peaches for George. At this rate, folks would have to book a time slot just to make a sandwich.

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