Dad Made Dinner

After returning home and walking through the front door, I can smell my father's lasagna. It's never bad, but it's also the literally only thing he ever makes. It's why mom cooks most of the time: it isn't because she's a woman, she' just diverse.

Before I have a chance to shower, my brother pulls me into the kitchen, “Good, you're back in time for dinner. Dad made lasagna, since, of course Dad made lasagna, but he's about to put it on. Don't make us wait for you to get a shower to eat.”

Told to act normal, I just nod and immediately postpone the shower command and go to the kitchen, taking my seat and looking at my family. The table seats six, but I usually sit at the far end of the table from Dad, because I'm the oldest boy.

“Lasagna, again, eh, Dad?” I ask, jokingly. Dad fixes with me with a deadpan stare for a long moment, as if debating what to say. It's a conversation we've had often, usually lighthearted. I give him a bit of snark, and he'll respond with a joke.