When I get to the front of the line, I grab a red plastic tray, fork, spoon, knife, and immediately walk to the cold foods section. I serve myself two bowls of Fruity Pebbles, an orange, yogurt, four glasses of water, and two glasses of skim milk. I eat every meal with my family. One member is from Vermont, the other Ohio. I am from Michigan. My biological family? No – my “adopted” family away from home.
We sit at the usual spot, three tables behind the boys’ hockey team, and directly across from the Latinos. Our meal starts with typical everyday conversation. But ten minutes later, I find myself launching a spoonful of soggy cereal across the table. As I turn around, a hotdog bun – accompanied by a pepper shaker – strikes my head. That’s it: the war has begun.
My family’s meals venture far from the ordinary. Occasionally, a food fight breaks loose, or when we’re really having fun, we create strange figures with the salt shakers. My family’s DNA makeup doesn’t match, and we definitely don’t share the same physical characteristics. But our bond surpasses blood. With my family, laughter is a must, disappointment is temporary, and love always conquers all.
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