Some things are sacred. No, I’m not talking about the Monopoly Free Parking Rule, which, in my family, has never once been challenged by living room quorum in my near 30 years as sibling senator. Sure, there have been rumblings of appeals over the years, specifically The Marvin Gardens Massacre of ’93 that left two of my siblings in bankruptcy and one in diapers (to be fair he was already wearing them, but still). [clears throat, blows pitch-pipe] And the hotel’s red glare, the banker bursting into tears, gave proof through the power outage that our Free Parking jackpot was still there. I digress. I’m talking about one of the most sacred family institutions since shared Netflix passwords: dinnertime. In our household, dinnertime is a cherished sacrament of bread breaking, fellowship, and- No, don’t throw your spoon. We don’t throw our spoon on the floor. Um, I don’t think she likes apples. She keeps… What did I say about throwing your spoon? Do we have anything other than apples? No, don’t grab daddy’s plate. Can we…. No! Don’t do that! Is there a Get Out of Dinner Free card?