I'm standing in front of the stove, poking at sizzling chicken with a spatula. Jumbalaya rice is bubbling next to it, the table is set, savory smells are wafting through the house. I call, "Dinner!" in a somewhat loud, cheery voice. No one hears me.

I set the dishes of steaming food on the table and call again in a sing song voice, "Din - ner!" No one comes. I pour glasses of water and set various condiments on the table. "DINNER!" I call with a slightly raised timbre and just a touch of firmness - a voice that wants to cut through chatter, the sound of the television, the sound of running water—whatever might be keeping everyone from their num num.

Nobody.

The laundry room is next to the kitchen so while I wait for the five bodies to find their way to their places, I pull clothes from the dryer and load the washer again. I snap on Andrea Bocelli's CD, "Sacred Arias", which is a journey into the glory of God. Opera singers practice their vocal range over and over, stretching the capacity of their lungs, diaphragm and vocal ability. I wonder if going up the scale will have an effect on the call for dinner.

I start with the lowest note I can project. "DIN-NER." This comes out sounding like the dark notes of the boogeyman's voice—like when you're clicking channels on late night television and see an old Boris Karloff movie, and the monster is groaning, "Ahhhhh", with hands outstretched and zombie demeanor. Then I move up the scale a step. "DIN-NER". It still sounds like the boogeyman moaning only it's a slightly higher note.

Still no one comes. So I move to the cutting board and chop up tomatoes and cucumbers—gifts from Gerhard Peemoeller's garden. Where is my recalcitrant family? I begin to lose patience and yell up the scale, Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do style, "DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER!!!" until the final "dinners" are blood curdling screams, sounding more like victims running from the boogeyman.

No one comes.

Down the scale. Top volume, Do Re Mi etc., starting with high pitched curdling screams down to the throaty, deep, dark monster voice again. "DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER DINNER!" By the end of that one I am coughing because my voice is so strained. How do these opera singers do it? They have lungs like whales.

Then I try a series of high pitched screams, like a damsel tied to a railroad track, villain chuckling, hero spaced out. "DINNER! DINNER! DINNER!" More coughs. "Diiiiiiinnnneeeeeer!" Then multiple notes, DINner, dinNER, dinner, DINNER, dinner, DINNER!"

Was everyone kidnapped and sold to a passing gang of brigands? "DINNER!" I shriek. Finally (you'd think I would have done this already) I walk through the house to find out what is keeping everyone and find all the children sitting in front of their father who is talking with them about keeping their rooms clean.

I trudge into the room, dragging my voice box behind me like a little red wagon and say weakly, "Dinner. Dinner's ready." After only a few minutes of my self-imposed opera lessons, my voice has been shredded into a raspy squeak.

He says, "Oh, I was just talking to the children. We didn't hear you, we'll be right there."

I say, "That's okay. We have a microwave. I can re-heat it." I shuffle back to the kitchen, deflated. I guess I'm the only one who cares if the food is hot.

Maybe we should invest in one of those cowboy dinner bells that I can clank like Quasimoto. Or maybe I'll just serve milk and cereal three times a day instead. Less stress!

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