Dad says there's something wrong with me if I'm fourteen and still messing around with my food.  Eat the bloody mash. Quit building stuff with it. But I can't stop myself. Carrots are good, too. The carrots I've regimented on my plate while on the cooker fat spits at the bacon frying in the pan and Father yells at Mother not to cremate it again. Peas I cannot stand: they don't conform to my fork's will, but roll wild around the plate instead. My parents, they love peas. But for me, mash is where it's at. When I lean back to assess my sculpture—a geometric dome cooling to an igloo—I'm reassured by its familiar lines. But the bacon is inevitably blackened, drawing a loud slap, quiet tears, and a "start over until you get it right." If she served it raw straight from the packet—she wouldn't dare, but if she did—he'd insist it was burnt anyway. I wish I could crawl inside my mash-dome, through the entryway I've just scooped out, but Dad's fork descends upon it from nowhere, flattening everything on my plate. Eat it, sonny. Mum just drops another two rashers into the spluttering pan as I look sadly at the devastation in front of me.

        Tonight I'll eat, but tomorrow I'll build it again.