SUNDAY DINNER

         Is it the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning? The end of Daylight Savings Time always prompts this question, which could be rephrased into the glass being half-full or half-empty were it not for the fact that I don't have a clean glass in the house.

         All day Saturday I had chanted to myself, "Spring Forward, Fall Back." My calendar said it was October and October is part of the fall, so I knew the action that had to be performed, but I could not figure out why. I scanned my calendar. A doctor's appointment is on the schedule for late December, but that is my only scheduled date until March. What if I did not turn the clock back?

         I had this same debate with myself last year, but on that occasion I realized that my wife would be home from the hospital some day and would never understand the idea that time could be flexible. I conformed and set the seven clocks in my house back an hour, and then in early April I set them ahead to please her again. Alone now except for the animals, I had the chance to dictate my own time.

         Rather I would have the chance to keep seven different times, for none of the seven clocks has the same reading. Bedroom time is the farthest ahead; the oven clock is the slowest, being a good eight minutes behind the one on my night table. The differences only cause problems if I have to be in the living room at six, but rely on the oven clock or cellar clock to give me a push. I do hate to be late for an appointment to see the local news, even on Saturday.

         The young weatherman on the news reminded me to set my clock back. I heard him in a daze as I dozed off for a long October nap. I woke at 12:15 a.m., realized it was 11:15 p.m. once the clock was turned back, went to the bathroom, checked my Email and then entered the great debate again.

         Rick Blaine thought, 'Why shouldn't I exist in my own dimension?'

         Captain Renault replied, 'People will think you have gone off the deep end.'

         'How will they know?'

         'You talk too much, Ricky, that's how they will know.'

         'Oh, shut up.'

         'Ricky, you know I am right.'

         And he is right. I must project conformity to the world. So I got up and set the clocks back, and this time I tried to set them all to the same time. When daylight came the next morning, the clock said it was just after six. As I sat up in bed, Victor Laszlo walked in and welcomed me back to the fight. I looked at my Cheapo-Cheapo watch and saw I had not turned it back. Resetting it requires punching buttons in a certain order while numbers flash on the face. I handed the watch to Victor to play with. After thirty minutes of futile effort, he handed it back to me and told me he had a flight to catch.

         The dog and cat were still on Daylight Savings. They bitched about not getting fed or watered, but I had things to do. I thought about breakfast at the Blue Parrot, but remembered that their French Toast was made with eggs that I had given them two weeks ago. I fed the animals. As the day wore on, the actual time grew more meaningless and other thoughts poured into my head. I realized I had to feed myself. I inventoried my cupboards, pantry and refrigerator.

         There was pasta, which I had the night before, frozen hamburger, frozen Italian sausage, several tomatoes and a green pepper, several cans of kidney beans, a can of stewed tomatoes and some tomato sauce and paste. There was cheese for grilled cheese sandwiches, eggs to cook and put over cornbread and top with salsa, and some provolone cheese. None of these ideas were particularly inspiring for Sunday dinner, so it was off to the supermarket.

         Once again two sides of me warred as I walked the aisles. Nothing in the meat or fish case appealed to me. It was too cold for a pre-cooked quiche and they hadn’t any ready made pot pies. My mind was drawn to the frozen food case. I heard the siren call of Amy's frozen foods coming from the display case. My wife Morgan's aides had bought Amy’s. Morgan loved them. I found vegetable lasagna, cheese enchiladas, a veggie pizza and a shepherd’s pie that would please any good vegan.

         I also found I would need a second mortgage to buy the lasagna or the pizza, but shepherd’s pie and enchiladas were much cheaper and were comfort food whether my body clock were on Standard, Daylight Savings or Lidle’s Imperial Time. I put two of each into my cart along with some yogurt for the cat and headed home. I read the instructions for the shepherd’s pie, popped two in the oven, and kept an appointment on my couch to see the six o’clock news.

         As it baked, Captain Renault took a seat in Morgan’s old chair. “Amy’s will not do, Ricky. You are on the first step of going to hell in a hand basket.”

         “Louis, when I want your opinion, I will ask for it.”

         “Ricky, first it will be Amy’s, next will be Stouffer’s but mark my words, in a few weeks it will be cheap frozen pizzas, and every night unless you develop a craving for Franco-American, which you will. You are not a sentimentalist, Ricky; you are getting lazy, not wanting to cook for yourself. You are giving up, Ricky.”

         I got up, walked over to the anniversary clock and turned it an hour ahead. The news fast- forwarded to Sixty Minutes. Sam tickled the ivories. Renault headed off to the gambling tables with Major Strasser. I took the shepherd’s pie out of the oven, tied a napkin around the neck of the dog and cat, put three plates on the table, spooned some onto each plate and we sat and had Sunday dinner. The picture of Morgan on the wall began to resemble Amy. The three of us looked at her and mouthed, “Here’s looking at you kid.”