Hot wheels zoom on the track while my grandmother watches over my shoulder. “Nyooom,” I exclaim as the car flies off during the loop. I soon tire of the old set, played with thousands of times. I grab my blankie with my grubby fingers and crawl over to inspect Grandma’s toy bucket, filled with rummage sale and Goodwill finds. My Levi’s overalls rub against the hardwood floor.

As Tickle-Me-Elmo entices me with his scarlet fur, my grandma yells, “Goo is ready!” 

My head shoots up like a prairie dog. I run over to her as she scoops noodles into my bowl. I reach up and yank it out of her hands. I gaze and glisten at the sight. I hobble over to the little step I call home during every meal and begin to eat.

Despite the unappetizing name, I vigorously demolish my first bowl of the dish. The noodles slide down my throat as my freshly grown-in teeth chomp on the hamburger and vegetables. I start to rise, but my grandmother grabs my empty bowl before I am off of the ground.

“I know goo is your favorite, Brady, I’ll get you some more,” she says.

I smile and sit patiently for more of the heaven-sent meal.

Soon enough, the second bowl has been completed, and the third...and the fourth…

I beg for more, but my grandma cuts the ties between my favorite food and me. I let out a death huddling scream and sob. But no matter how much my tiny hands beg for more, she refuses. She packs up the rest of the leftovers and my tears halt. I know that later in the evening the goo will be riding alongside me on the way back to my house, begging to be finished for dinner.