The Corn-bread Incident

Every fan of Calvin and Hobbes knows about the ominous references to the "Noodle Incident". Unfortunately, Bill Watterson never lets us in on the details of it, which of course is part of the splendor of the incident. I, myself, have a few incidents. My favorite one is the "Corn-bread Incident." Thus, I feel the need to take it upon myself to enlighten the world on the highlight of the winter of ott-five:

It was a chilly, dark Monday, February-ish, and the Fab Four was gathered around the table with the Chief and his spouse. I say the Fab Four because it was this team of siblings that, when assembled correctly and in the right phase of the moon, formed the most sarcastic, snide dinners in Hansen history, much to the Chief's chagrin. The Boy was a Cynical Senior, Heidi was at the top of her game, I was living out my last college year at home before I took off to Boston, so therefore always jolly and cheerful, and Leez-leez was always a great audience.

Anyway, it was Monday. And any Monday in February is Chili Day, which added more chagrinning for the Chief. In fact, the reason why the Cornbread Incident was so memorable was because of the Chief's chagrin, which kept climbing higher and higher.

So all was in place: Monday, Fab Four, chili, Chief Chagrin. Now everyone knows that chili means cornbread, which can't be served without the Chief telling the tired "cornbread r-squared" joke leading to the inevitable groans, which leads to the inevitable Kent-makes-fun-of-Dad joke, which leads to me inevitably laughing at my own joke, which leads to the inevitable Kent-laughs-at-his-own-jokes joke, all of this pretty routine at this point. I felt the team lacked the usual passion and effort, and, frankly, I was about to empty the bench and bring in some unfunny neighbors just to teach them a lesson. I mean, come on! They were really mailing it in, and something had to be done to spice things up a bit.

Meanwhile, someone had taken a singular piece from the corner of the square, glass Cornbread Pan (because Ma has never made anything else in that pan except maybe warm-up some leftover mush), and it was sitting in front of me, the spatula sitting under the next piece of cornbread, its handle resting on the side of the pan. I realized then that if I slammed my hand down on the handle, it would catapult the cornbread to who-knows-where-and-gosh-I'd-like-to-find-out. Well, this dinner was about as exciting as the dinner after we found out Brian died (What? He's not dead?), so I figured a Cornbread Catapulsion needed to be added to this dinner's fare.

Before I endeavored on this Journey of Delight, I wanted to make sure my siblings were watching, ready to applaud my hilarious actions. I asked the table if I should do it (I was going to regardless), to which I received gobs of encouragement from the Fab Four, whereas the Chief discouraged it and Ma didn't say anything, which of course means she secretly condoned it. I mean, at this point, who wouldn't want to see a piece of cornbread exploding out of the atmosphere? It was the only thing in my life worth living for!

After getting the necessary support, I made a fist and slammed the handle down to the table. The cornbread took flight, leaving a trail of crumbs in its flight path. The square, yellow projectile soared within an inch of the ceiling, narrowly missing the ceiling fan. We all sat in silence with jaws dropped, spoons full of chili dropped in disbelief as the cornbread seemed to fly in slow motion. They say that in moments like this your life flashes before your eyes. It's true.

The cornbread came back towards me but to my right by about 5 feet, so I had to make haste to preserve this delicious pastry. I dove over 2 chairs, stretched out like Eric Drage...reached out my hand, extended my fingers...CAUGHT!!! As soon as the stunt was completed, a roar of laughter came from the dinner attendees, including me, of course. I put the cornbread on my plate, honeyed it up, and put it down. Greatest moment of my life.