Being much too tired to clean up after my dinner party; I arose the next day to complete the necessary housekeeping chores. On the kitchen tabletop, I noticed the candy dish I always keep full was completely empty. “They must really have a sweet tooth,” I thought, and went on to dishwashing. When next I saw the previously invited friends, I jokingly asked them if I was remiss in not feeding them enough at dinner because, after all my food, they still had to raid the candy dish. One demurred, saying they hadn’t eaten any candy. One admitted to one piece and the third accused the fourth of being the glutton. I forgot the incident.
One week later; another dinner party. Several of the same crowd. Same scenario. The candy dish was again empty the next day. This was bothering me. The next time we gathered I made a point of asking who was hitting my candy dish so hard. This time one guest was miffed and said she hadn’t eaten any, “but if I didn’t want it eaten, why did I put it out?” Another denied any indulgence and said maybe I had mice.
“Silly, silly, silly,” I thought, “The table sits in the center of the kitchen. No mouse could reach it from the side countertops. It is on a pedestal, so even if a mouse could climb the leg, it would be unable to climb upside down on the table bottom to get to the top where the dish was. And there were no candy wrappers in evidence. Only a wrought iron chandelier is situated above the table and there would be no access from that unless the mice were trapeze artists.” This was a dilemma.
The following week I had no social events at all. Yet, the candy dish again appeared empty after one night. “Was I sleep eating?” I questioned myself, “this is really strange.”
In preparation for my next dinner, I pulled the pan drawer under the range open to get out a sauté pan. I saw a glint as I pulled out the pan and shards of gold were revealed to me. “What the...,” I exclaimed, immediately recognizing candy wrappers. As I remove more pans and covers, I see the drawer is full of candy wrappers, all torn and shredded.
I have mice! Not much of a revelation living in an old farm house. They come seeking warmth. But how are they getting onto the table and then getting the candy out of the dish and dragged across the floor, under the stove, and into that drawer?
I decide that I must have the Wallenda family of mice. The troupe must be swinging on a spider silk rigged trapeze across the table top, swiping up candy and handing it off to another grounded partner. A veritable nighttime circus. Of course, spoiler friends reveal mice are capable of climbing upon the side chairs and jumping three feet across to the table. It’s still a major feat to get that candy out of the dish and down on the floor and quite a distance to drag each piece across the floor to hide it in their under-stove banquet hall. Not to mention they have to do this numerous times to empty that dish.
I choose instead to regale myself with the visions of my graceful mice in little sequined leotards, swinging and swooping netless in a nighttime extravaganza of circus acrobatics. My very own Wallenda mice. However, I am very protective of my candy. The family has had to sacrifice members of the team to my own peanut butter temptation devices. The Wallendas are a big family. The count stands at 10 and my candy dish remains full.
©Jerry Wendt 2011
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