Manna from Heaven

I hated when it was God’s turn to cook dinner. He made it a point to give Mom a day of rest and said that on that day he would provide. Of course she still had to set the table and clear the dishes. God didn’t do dishes. The worst thing about God’s night to cook was that God only made manna or something from manna.

Manna could be placed in any kind of dish. We ate fried manna, steamed manna, boiled manna, manna casserales and manna stews. I dreamt manna and felt manna weeping from my pores manna. Still, I had no idea what manna was. I finally asked God what it was that we were eating.

“What do you mean ‘what are we eating?’” God said while he wiped up a bit of gravy with a piece of manna and put it in his mouth. The manna served as both the main dish and the side dish. “We are eating manna.”

“I know that we are eating manna,” I poked the thick, fungi thing with a fork as if to see if it might move or cry out. “But Dad, what exactly is manna?”

“Manna is manna,” he replied. He looked down upon his plate in reflection. The brow above his eyes curled in thought.

Jesus and Little Mary let go a laugh.

“No, what food group does it fall into? I mean, I am pretty sure that it is not a fruit but only because it has no sweetness; those seeds confuse me. It doesn’t appear to be dairy. Vegetable, meat and bread are all a toss up as far as I can tell.” I fingered the manna as if it was part of a chemistry experiment.

God went silent. He continued to eat his manna, not answering me. Only his face had turned serious as if he was upset and that was when I realized that even he didn’t know. Manna was just some fluffy bread like meaty thing that resembled potatoes.

Mom kicked me from under the table and made like that I should change the subject, but I couldn’t. I asked him why he couldn’t make something else like chicken, I mean he was God wasn’t he. He should be able to cook chicken.

This last bit pushed him over the edge and God found himself in the precarious position of having to defend manna. He said, “It is healthy. It sustained the Israelites for a generation in the desert. If they could eat it for forty years than you could eat it this once.”

I said “Well, whose fault do you supposed that was, making those poor people walk around for forty years in a desert where there wasn’t any decent food. If things weren’t bad enough they were eating this stuff. They probably made that golden calve as a hint. They were saying ‘Hey God, send us some beef’.”

Mom shot me an ugly glare and at the time I couldn’t figure out why. I expected her to come to my defense but instead her eyes told me that I had stepped over the line. Hadn’t she often complained to me that all God cooked was manna as we cleared the table together?

“How did they take a bath,” Jesus added between bites of stuffed manna. “Did you also drop bars of soap, Dad? I bet they smelled terrible.”

“Don’t get me started on that,” God rolled his eyes. “Why is everyone always blaming me for the Israelites plight? Whenever something bad happened it was always ‘Yahweh is punishing us’. Did they ever stop to think that maybe Yahweh might also be waiting for them to get to the promise land? Like I had nothing better to do then watch them wander in circles. Or maybe I might be busy creating life on another planet? After all, it is a big universe. Is it my fault not one of them had a sense of direction? I didn’t want them to just keep going round in circles, but that is exactly what they did. I mean couldn’t one of them learn to read stars or invent a compass, the Phoenicians did. I will tell you this Mary, that Moses was good with the staff but he had an awful sense of direction. I’m still amazed he made it downstream. Jesus, you think I didn’t have something better to do with my time.”

“What did I say?” my brother asked.

“Oh, not you Jesus,” God shook his head, “I was just using a figure of speech.”

“Oh,” Jesus replied and went back to eating his manna

I guess my complaining got to him, because next week Dad said that he was going to cook chicken. It didn’t turn out to be just a chicken; it was dove and not one but five doves and three goats and bushels of squash and greens.

I arrived home from school and was immediately accosted by a burnt stench. I walked into the kitchen. It was an absolute mess with God in the center of the linoleum lying prostrate on the ground. There were three doves arranged on a platter near his head, each one slit down the middle, their heads still dangling by thick tendons. Blood splattered the floor and dotted the ceiling. Small gray feathers flew everywhere. It looked like a massacure had occurred in there. A large kettle sat on one of the burners and an awful, putrid cloud arose out of it. I asked Dad what he was doing and he said that this was how you properly prepared food for the table.

God got up from the ground and continued leafing through the Book of Exodus, which he was apparently using as a cookbook.

“What’s in there?” I pointed to the kettle with the black cloud.

“Goat blood. It creates a pleasing odor to the Lord.”

“It doesn’t smell so pleasing,” I wrinkled my nose.

“Well, now that I have had the opportunity to appreciate it close up, I must confess that you’re right Mary. Remember, I didn’t have a nose up in Heaven. I was just trying to give the Israelites something to do. I didn’t want any of that virgin sacrifice to start up again. I think I’ll go throw this down the drain.”

“Better take it outside,” I said.

“Are you kidding? The neighbors will think I boiled a skunk or worse and possibly report me to either the Humane Society or the Department of Family Services.” God chose to pour the boiled blood down the drain and the stench remained in our house for the next week. Later he told Mom no use crying over spilk. She cried anyway.

We all ate in silence among the feathers and blood and remnants of the sacrifice. To top it all off with, God overcooked the birds and the meat was dry. All through dinner mother eyed me and I could feel the guilt dripping over my body as if I had just emerged from a pool. I had created this mess.

“Come here Mary,” she called as I tried to escape to my room after dinner.

“Yes, Mom”

“Do you realize that your little sister will probably have nightmares?" she accused.

"Yes, but I had no idea."

"I want you to help me clean the kitchen.” Mom handed me a sponge and bucket of water. I began scrubbing the blood and fowl intestines off the wall and tile.

“Mary, it is a little known fact that the Israelites did not like manna either,” Mom scraped a piece of goat off the wall. “See, after a few years of wandering in the dessert the Israelites began to complain about the food, so God asked them what they wanted and one of them, Leviathus, said that pork chops would be nice. Well the next day it rained pork on the Israelites camp, not just chops but blood and feet and heads. It was reported that three people were killed by falling pork butts. It was so traumatic that the very next day the religious elders forbid the consumption of pork forever.”

“Now your father means well,” Mom continued. “But God was never very much of a cook. So from now on, please eat the manna without complaining and never ask your father to cook anything else again. You simply thank God for the manna from heaven and remain silent.”

From that day forward no one ever complained about one of dad’s meals.