Dry Onions

My mom yelled before leaving the kitchen, “don’t you dare touch those onions, were almost out!”
There sat on the open counter a can of French’s dry onions, an essential ingredient to the green bean casserole to be served at the Thanksgiving feast. For some reason the inner child in us comes a live when we are told not to do things, and there is a sudden urge to do the thing we were told not to do.
For my old man, the dry onions with the command do not touch, turned into a candy store. But at his old age he has learned to be crafty. In order to get the job done it was necessary for him to hike his pants up over his bulging beer gut, and casually make a trip to the fridge.
A trip he has made in his day many times to fulfill his palette with an ice cold Budlight. The plan was perfect, statue of liberty to the counter and sweep out of the kitchen unnoticed.
The execution however was a disaster. With all eyes on him except my mom of course he crumbled under the pressure. The stroll to the counter was inconspicuous, but when his large arms went to swipe the tiny can they failed to grasp the container and dry onions flew like fireworks on the 4th of July.
He scrambled frantically to pick up the ant size dry onion pieces with his stubby fingers. He was against the clock, my brother had burst into laughter, and an angry housewife was about to return to her feast she had been slaving over all day.
When about half the can was back in its place, he suddenly froze to a deathly stare.
“What are you doing Brad?” my mom said sternly.
He had been caught and stuttering the first thing that rolled off his head, “I was putting the dried onions back in the fridge?”