Ode to the Odd One

TAINTED TASTE

 

I am forced to sit still, keep my mouth shut or leave the table. Obeying my mom is tough, but I do try, yet my eyes are constantly drawn to my father who sometimes makes me want to puke. Tonight I am on the verge of doing just that and did not ask permission to leave. I ran to the powder room.

 

Dinner had gone well until....the dessert, wide, ice cold slices of sweet, red watermelon were passed around. The overhead fan whirled enough for me to shiver a tiny bit. Dad, a perturbed look on his face, stood pushed his chair back until it almost fell over. He said nothing as he headed to the kitchen. Within a minute or two he was back, bitching, grumbling, why my mom had not brought the big box of coarse kosher salt in when she served the watermelon. She apologized and brought it to him from the counter near the gas range, where it was always handy to please my father. Dad used an extra sharp knife to cut his quarter of the melon into bite sized-pieces and dipped each deep into the bowl of salt. My imagination took over as I swallowed his god-awful melon while he sighed with pleasure.

 

Aunt Brunhilda, who I have called Aunt Betsy since I was about four, has been having dinner with us on a somewhat regular schedule of each Tuesday, 8 p.m. sharp. Her bringing dessert was not what made her special to me. I don't know what did but I have always thought of her as my 'favorite' aunt. My only other one, Aunt Cordelia, I called ' Connie,' but she was sick for a long time and went to heaven, Mama told me.

 

Last night was almost a disaster. Mama's noodle soup steamed hot. I love her soup and had a second bowl. High in the middle of the seldom used antique platter, Mama had made a mountain of pure white chunks of chicken salad surrounded by juicy slices of Maryland just ripe tomato slices, large green olives, and freshly shelled walnuts. Knowing I like mayo, Mama put a small bowl of it with a little silver ladle near me.
Dad had been scanning the table, surely aware something was missing. After leading us in saying Grace, he stood, looked at Mama and asked,' 'Where the devil is the Gulden Mustard, Woman?' She made no effort to answer but hurried to get the mustard from the kitchen. Did my father thank her? No siree! He only chastised her that the jar was not full. As he griped, he filled his plate with almost ½ of what Mama had prepared and dumped the entire contents of mustard over it, tossed it around until the color yellow was gone and what was left looked like a pile of doggie doo. Aunty Betsy asked Mama how she could continue to live with this oaf. Mama pretended she didn't hear the question.

 

Even I, the youngest at the table, felt the tension. With a poke in my ribs, Aunt Betsy let me know I should help clear the table for dessert.
Dad's chicken salad plate, with its mustard glow, barely needed washing. Small pieces of rye bread crust had swirled around the edges.

 

Dinner was not over. Mama had fresh pineapple slices on each plate, In the core she had added a scoop of blueberry yogurt. Two sugar cookies were just enough to make dinner perfect–except for my Dad. His ways are his ways and he will not accept criticism without getting back at the criticizer.

 

Daddy let us know as soon as his pineapple slice was in front of him that he needed more sugar. The pineapple's sour taste made his back teeth hurt. I brought him the sugar bowl that is kept ready on the kitchen counter–but it wasn't totally filled. 'Take it back and fill it to the top, Julie,' he ordered. I filled it, brought it to him and 'accidently'
got my shoe caught on a slight bump in the carpet.

 

As I began to fall, I twisted myself into an 'S' and headed my whole self right smack at my Daddy, let the bowl fly where ever it wanted to go.  It went where it was meant to go, clunked my dad on his head. I, Mama and Aunty Betsy laughed hysterically as the sugar ran inside Daddy's bi-focals. He could hear us but not see the great pleasure my mis-hap gave us.

 

And there was more. Goofus Daddy dipped his linen napkin into his still filled water glass and tried to wipe away the sugar. It made only a sticky paste and scratched his lenses.

 

Mama, Aunt Betsy and I had a ding dong happy ending to that dinner and I was not called down even once for my carelessness.