The Table That Walked Out Mid-Dinner
At the Fousek family’s house, dinner was always a bit chaotic.
Well… “a bit” was Mum’s word for it.
Dad called it “the dinner tornado.”
And Grandma once said that if a hen lived under the table, it would never need grain again.
Around the table sat three siblings — five-year-old Matěj, four-year-old Rozárka, and little Tonda.
And all three were terribly busy while they ate.
Matěj took two bites and remembered:
“Hey! I have to show you how I can jump off the couch!”
And he ran off.
Rozárka nibbled a roll while walking around the table.
Crunch.
A crumb on the table off the plate.
Crunch.
A crumb on the chair.
Crunch.
A crumb on the floor.
And Tonda preferred to eat while holding bread in one hand, a toy car in the other, and driving both around the whole flat.
“Tonda, bread is not a passenger,” Mum would say.
But by then the bread had already toured the kitchen, the hall, the living room, and once even ended up on the shoe shelf.
Worst of all, the children always piled on a giant portion.
“I want LOTS!”
“I want even more!”
“Give me three dumplings!”
And a moment later:
“I don’t want any more.”
“I don’t like it.”
“My tummy is full.”
And half of dinner stayed on the plates.
Mum didn’t force the last bites.
“If you’re truly not hungry, you don’t have to stuff yourselves,” she said.
“But next time take less first. You can always add more.”
But the next day it all happened again.
And then Thursday came.
That strange Thursday.
Mum cooked mashed potatoes, chicken, and cucumber salad.
The children raced to the table.
“I want the biggest piece of meat!”
“I want the biggest mountain of mash!”
“I want everything!”
Mum just looked at Dad.
Dad looked at the table.
And the table…
…sighed.
“Hoooooh.”
Everyone went quiet.
“What did you do?” Mum asked Dad.
“Nothing.”
“Hoooooh,” came again.
This time even the plates trembled.
And then a deep voice rose from the table:
“THAT’S ENOUGH.”
Rozárka dropped her fork.
Matěj’s mouth fell open.
Tonda whispered:
“The table is talking.”
“Yes,” the table growled. “And I’ve had it up to my drawers!”
“You don’t have drawers,” said Matěj.
“THAT IS COMPLETELY BESIDE THE POINT RIGHT NOW!”
The table creaked.
“Every day crumbs crawl all over me. Every day someone smears sauce on my legs. Once I had half a roll under me, two noodles, and a pea that lived there for THREE DAYS!”
Dad peeked under the table, trying not to look guilty.
“And the worst part,” the table went on, “is your endless running off. All day I look forward to everyone sitting together for a moment in the evening. And what happens instead?
Bite — gone.
Bite — toy car.
Bite — couch.
Bite — cat.
Bite — sock.”
Tonda looked at his sock.
There really was a bit of cheese stuck to it.
“So,” the table declared, “I’m leaving.”
And before anyone could say a word…
VRRRRZ!
The table tucked its legs under itself like a giant wooden beetle.
Plates slid to the floor.
And the table bolted for the door.
“OUR TABLE!” Mum cried.
Everyone ran after it.
The table thundered down the hall.
Thud thud thud thud!
It clattered down the stairs.
Thud thud thud thud!
It burst out of the house and headed across the garden.
“Wait!” Rozárka called.
But the table did not wait.
It raced through the gate and vanished into the woods.
The children stopped.
“What are we going to do?” Matěj asked.
Dad shrugged.
“I guess we’ll have to eat without a table.”
At first the children thought it was brilliant.
“A picnic!” Rozárka shouted.
They sat on the carpet.
Everyone got a plate.
Matěj took a bite, jumped up, and ran for his blocks.
SQUELCH.
“Ow!”
Rozárka had just stepped into his mash.
Tonda carried his bread over to the toy cars.
“Watch out!” Mum called.
Too late.
Tonda tripped.
The bread landed under the cupboard.
Baryk the dog got there before Tonda.
“Baryk! That was mine!”
Baryk said nothing.
He just chewed, very contentedly.
Rozárka set her plate beside her.
A moment later she turned.
And sat straight down in the cucumber salad.
“EEEWW!”
Dad tried not to laugh.
He really tried.
He failed.
“Sorry,” he said between laughs. “But you’ve got cucumber on your bum.”
Dinner without a table was a disaster.
The next morning was even worse.
The children held porridge bowls on their knees.
One tipped over.
A spoon vanished under the couch.
Tonda found an old bit of roll under the cupboard and wanted to eat it.
“Not that one,” Mum stopped him.
“Why?”
Mum turned the roll over.
The other side was green.
“Because some food that rolls around everywhere simply goes bad.”
The children slowly began to understand that their old ordinary table might not have been so ordinary after all.
In the afternoon they set out to find it.
They followed tracks into the woods.
One print was a wooden leg.
Another was scraped earth.
Then they found a napkin on a branch.
“This way!” Matěj shouted.
The table sat in a little clearing.
Around it was something very strange.
About twenty forest animals were sitting there.
Squirrels.
A hedgehog.
Two mice.
A hare.
And even a deer.
They all sat neatly around the table and ate.
The squirrel had three nuts.
It ate two.
It saved the third.
The hare had a bit of carrot.
The hedgehog a few apple pieces.
Nobody ran around the forest with food.
Nobody made a mash highway.
Nobody threw food on the ground.
“See?” the table told the children.
“They know how to respect me.”
Matěj hung his head.
“We didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I believe you.”
Rozárka thought for a moment.
“Will you come back?”
The table creaked.
“Maybe.”
“What do we have to do?”
The table was quiet for a while.
Then it said:
“You must pass the Grand Dinner Trial.”
The children’s eyes lit up.
A TRIAL!
That sounded much better than “table manners.”
The table gave them a basket.
Inside were three little rolls, three apples, and six pieces of cheese.
“This is your dinner.”
Matěj froze.
“But I want four cheeses.”
“You may.”
“Awesome!”
“But if you don’t eat them, you’ll carry the leftovers home on your back.”
“What?”
The table pointed to a huge backpack.
“Every unnecessarily taken bit of food turns into a stone.”
Matěj immediately took only one cheese.
Rozárka started laughing.
“You’re scared of the stones!”
“Am not. I just… like light backpacks.”
The children began to eat.
After a while Matěj jumped up.
“I’m just going to —”
Suddenly the chair stuck to his trousers.
“AAA!”
It took two steps with him.
Clop.
Clop.
Clop.
Rozárka fell under the table laughing.
“Anyone who runs off with food,” the table explained, “takes the chair with them.”
Matěj sat back down.
“Fine. I’m not going anywhere.”
Tonda nibbled his roll.
A crumb fell to the ground.
And suddenly:
PEEP!
A tiny little hen ran out of the bushes and pecked up the crumb.
PEEP PEEP!
Another crumb.
Another hen.
PEEP PEEP PEEP!
Before long maybe thirty hens were scurrying around Tonda.
“HELP!”
Tonda held the roll above his head.
The hens hopped around him.
“Do you know what happens to crumbs you leave everywhere?” the table asked.
“Hens come?!”
“Sometimes.”
The table chuckled.
“And other times ants. Or mice. Or someone steps on them and spreads them through the whole house.”
Tonda started eating over his plate.
The hens trudged away, disappointed.
At last the children had finished.
Rozárka left half an apple.
“I’m really full,” she said carefully.
The table looked at her.
The children waited to see if a stone would appear.
Nothing.
“That’s all right,” said the table.
“But I didn’t finish it!”
“Nobody has to eat past a full tummy.”
The table took the half apple.
“We’ll save it for later.”
Rozárka smiled.
“So you always have to clean your plate?”
“No,” said the table.
“Food isn’t a contest.
But when you don’t know how hungry you are, take a little first.
If you want more, add some.
When you can’t manage more, stop.
And while you eat, give the food a moment of attention.”
Matěj nodded.
“And I don’t run to the bathroom with a roll.”
“I wasn’t going to say that,” the table muttered.
“But yes. Especially don’t run to the bathroom with a roll.”
In the end the table went home with them.
From then on, dinners at the Fouseks’ were not perfectly orderly.
Not that.
Once spaghetti landed on Tonda’s shirt.
Rozárka spilled milk.
Matěj once forgot and ran off to show everyone a giant beetle.
But something had changed.
When the children ate, they mostly stayed at the table for a while.
Food stopped touring the flat.
They took smaller portions and then added more.
And when they weren’t hungry, they said so.
And best of all, they started talking at dinner.
What each of them had done.
What was funny.
What had annoyed someone.
What they would do tomorrow.
One evening Matěj leaned on the tabletop and said:
“You know, it’s actually pretty nice that we have a place where we’re all together.”
The table creaked softly.
“I’ve known that for a long time.”
From under the table came:
“PEEP.”
Everyone froze.
Dad slowly looked down.
One tiny little hen was sitting there.
Waiting for a crumb.
Tonda hugged his roll to his chest.
“NO WAY.”
And from then on, whenever a crumb fell on the floor at the Fouseks’, it was enough to whisper:
“Peep.”
And everyone knew exactly what it meant — and burst out laughing.
The end.