I was three when my parents began their separate lives and for a time we lived with Mum, who lived with her Mum.
All little three year old men like their spaghetti, and love it enough to share with the entire table. All was innocent until me brother introduced me to the hard stuff. The sort of spaghetti only Grandma could reach. And like two boys behind the library with cigarettes, I had my first taste of the forbidden. It was long, and crunchy, and I was hooked.
Mum found us, in the kitchen at Grandma’s, with a long thin stick each. Crunching away happily.
“That spaghetti will swell up in your tummy” Mum informed me. Owen took another bite and crunched while Mum continued her dry spaghetti rant. Mum stood up and moved the spaghetti jar further from reach.
Around Grandma’s neck of the woods it was easier to get around on public transport, compared to hunting for a car space after wrestling with heavy traffic. So little red riding hood left her big red car at Grandma’s place while we went to get tapestry stuff from the shops. Sitting on Mum’s knee on a bus, I watched a heavily pregnant lady step on and move through the crowd to where an ageing serviceman gave up his seat.
Remembering the lesson I was taught the night before, I pointed to her swollen tummy and said
“I know what you have been doing”
The pregnant lady looked down at Mum, really looking down, with a look that could kill. Mum was so embarrassed, and looked the other way, stripped of all traces of dignity. I was happy because I had spread the word on the evils of eating uncooked spaghetti.
Source: reddit post