My family and I went out to dinner at a country club in a neighboring town. It was slightly upscale, but only in the sense that it was fancier than Perkins; crystal candleholders, plastic tablecloths. It was fancy in kind of a grandparents'-at-the-holidays way.

I play with my food. I admit it. I'm a licensed driver with the table habits of a five-year-old. Tonight, though, was the best playtime I've had in ages. And yes, this all really happened.

I started off with Happy Butter Land. Happy Butter Land is a magical place where little plastic trays of butter (you know, the ones with the foil covers--they come with baskets of rolls) dance in a big circle and sing and have lengthy council meetings about Margarinian foreign policy. Happy Butter Land is a marvelous nation with a burgeoning economy, a healthy art community, and a system of government based on vegetable oil. It is the only country in the world with a national anthem that uses the word 'cholesterol-free.'

As I was explaining the history and delicate political system of Happy Butter Land to my somewhat bemused father, my mother informed me that I was "retarded." I told her that she shouldn't treat the H.B.L. ambassador with such insensitivity. She told me to shut up and eat. Shocked at such foreign hostility, I did as I was told so as not to strain overseas relationships.

After downing toast and half a steak, I set my eye on a wooden shish-kebab (I have no clue how to spell that) stick and a leaf of garnish lettuce. I used a steak knife to quickly fashion a rectangular lettuce bit, and carefully strung it onto the stick. I then jabbed the stick into the remnants of my steak.

"Now what are you doing?" my father inquired.

"Well, it appears that the empire of Lettuconia has acquired another territory," I answered. "There's really nothing I can do. As a representative of the H.B.L., it's strictly against policy for me to interfere."

By now, though, my unused glass of ice water had gained my attention. To the protests of my mother, I transferred the newly-conquered Lettuconian region to my father's plate and then proceeded to pour the contents of the glass into mine.

"And that is?" Dad asked.

"The Hydrotic Sea," I informed him. "It forms a natural barrier between Lettuconia," I explained, gesturing at his plate, "and Happy Butter Land," I finished, pointing at the corner of the table that the H.B.L. occupied. "The Lettuconian rebels do not dare to cross it, as the way is treacherous and filled with icebergs." It was true; giant blocks of ice dotted the inch-deep sea.

"This is so stupid," my mother muttered, shaking her head.

"This is really interesting," Dad argued.

I wasn't really paying attention to them. I was busy fashioning a sailing ship out of a slice of melba toast, a toothpick, and another lettuce fragment. I then placed it in the Hydrotic Sea.

"Oh, no!" I gasped, raising my eyebrows. My father studied my plate, and my mother began to engage my brother in conversation. "Lettuconian pirates!"

Here I took a pair of empty butter trays and placed them at the opposite end of the plate. "The merchant ships from Happy Butter Land are in grave danger," I observed breathlessly.

I quickly began to maneuver the pirate ship around the ice cubes. Then, I picked up a spoon, and whacked a merchant ship squarely down the middle.

My father had caught on. "She's been rammed!" he cried, playing along marvelously. I steered the pirate ship toward the other merchant, and it appeared that H.B.L.'s economy was doomed.

Then, in a spectacular bit of improvisation, my father fished out another slice of melba toast and placed it between the ships. "The Happy Butter Land Coast Guard!" he declared. The two melba vessels waged a quick and decisive battle, and the now-soggy Lettuconian pirates were defeated .

"Happy Butter Land is safe," my father announced, laughing.

"You should travel to the H.B.L. now," I nodded sagely. "You're certain to become an honorary citizen."

"You'd better tip this waitress well," Mom interrupted. "And you'd better be willing to take responsibility when my 35-year-old daughter makes a fool of herself at business luncheons."

"If I ever attend a business luncheon, you will both have failed me as parents," I assured her.