Dinner With the Fam

            by Megan Stimpson

 

            Dinner is a pretty set-in-stone occasion in my family. Every night my younger sister Kerry and I, with a little help from our five-year-old brother Brad, set the table, and then from six to seven o’clock the whole family eats. Every family member’s presence is required, no exceptions. Occasionally the starting and ending times will be altered, but in general that is how we roll.

            Often we will have guests (usually my friends or Kerry’s, or sometimes my grandma) who liven up the meal. One of our more usual guests is Kerry’s friend Assata. Assata, like Kerry, is a sophomore in high school. She is pretty much one of the family and so she fits in quite nicely with the crowd.

            On one particular Friday evening, Brad started us off with the usual grace. “Dear Lord,” he began, his hands crossed and his head bowed. “Thank you for the food that Mommy made. We pray for the good day we had today and Vanessa…and for my booboo on my foot…and…we hope that I get better…at that game…um…the one with the cars? Mom? What’s that called?”

            “Bradford I don’t know but I think you’re done.”

            “No! I have to tell him the name! Oh and I pray for my friend Collin…and Erik…and Agu….and Benjamin and….”

            “AMEN!” Kerry and I cried at the same time, halting one of Brad’s never ending prayers.

            “So girls,” my dad said, clearing his throat. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

            “Me and Assata are going to have another poetry slam,” Kerry said quickly. “You guys can come and watch it if you want.” Remembering the last poetry slam of theirs that I was forced to experience (and the interpretative dancing that accompanied it), I made a mental note to stay away from both of them.

            “Mom I’m hanging out later with my friends, okay?” I asked.

            “Yes, of course you are. I don’t know why you even bother living here, you’re never home,” my mom muttered.

            “Yeah, why don’t they come here? Your friends never come here,” piped in my dad. I gave him a look. “I’m serious!” he retorted.

            “Daaaad.”

            “OMG!” cried Assata, looking at a bowl on the counter that was filled with baking soda. “Is that…” She turned her voice to a whisper. “…Cocaine?!”

            “When I was a kid, my parents knew my friends and I knew my friends’ parents…” My dad ignored Assata and embarked on one of my most favorite of the Dad Speeches. I had this particular conversation with him, or one very similar to it, every time I tried to leave the house on the weekends.

            “No Assata. It’s baking soda. It’s supposed to go in the fridge to help with a smell,” my mom explained.

            “…we used to play bridge with my friend John’s parents. Sometimes we played twice a week.” The Dad Speech continued. “I got pretty good, actually. We – hey Bradford, could you just sit still for one minute? One minute, okay? Just sit down.”

            “Ah. Riiight,” Assata said and winked twice, nudging my mom knowingly. “BAKING SODA.”  

            “D’accord,” Brad answered my dad in French. He learns French at school and my parents both took French classes so they can all communicate without Kerry and me.

            “But Dad,” I said. “I really don’t like bridge.”

            “BRAD! SIT!” my father exclaimed. “But it’s an opportunity to do things together,” he continued. “It’s a relationship between two people instead of just ‘my daughter’s friends.’ I want to know who these people that you call friends are.”

            “Dad! You’ve met my friends before! Why don’t you ever bug Kerry about her friends?”

            Kerry perked up. “Hey!”

            “Because this is never an issue,” he answered.

            “What does that mean Dad? I have friends! Look, Assata’s right here.”

            My dad sighed and began, “You’re right, there are times when it’s okay to have a small group of friends. But usually it’s better with a bigger group.” He took his hand and put it on Kerry’s shoulder. “Honey, we just feel sorry for you about not having friends.”

            “DAD!”

            Across from him, in the guest seat, Assata began, “This actually reminds me of something that happened to me today.”

            “Mom did you hear what Dad just said to me?” Kerry exclaimed.

            “Huh? No.” Over the years my mother has astutely discovered that if she just pretends she isn’t paying attention to us she doesn’t have to get involved. For example, once we rented a bounce house for our backyard in celebration of Brad’s fifth birthday and it deflated while Brad was still stuck inside. Fortunately, my dad has not developed my mom’s same coping technique, and with his advantaged position of a few feet away he was able to respond to the bounce house crisis in a timely fashion

            “Yeah, so I went to this ‘Know Your Rights’ workshop,” Assata continued, this time speaking more loudly. “And now I…well I know my rights now, so I guess it worked. They told us if you’ve been smoking weed in the car, and the police pull you over…”

            “I have a police car! It’s hecka fast!” said Brad. I should say yelled, actually. He has not grasped an understanding of volume control yet, so mostly he yells. “Even faster than my friend Erik’s!”

            “…and if they want to talk to you, just roll down your window an inch. You don’t have to roll it down all the way!” Assata finished proudly.

            My dad just looked at her, chewing his food. I made eye contact with my sister. There was an uneasy silence between us. I wasn’t sure how my dad would react to Assata’s chosen topic, especially considering his reaction to our explanation of 4/20.

            But he surprised me by probing into the logistics of the situation. “Why? So the smell can shoot out through a tiny area in their face?”

            Assata was taken back. “Uh, well…”

            My dad put down his fork. “No, no. What would make more sense would be to just roll down the windows on the other side of the car and let the whole cloud go out over there and THEN open up your window and talk to the police.”

            Assata paused and slowly began nodding her head. “Hmmm…I see what you’re saying, Brother Malcolm.”

            Long ago Assata decided that my father looked like Malcolm X. We had all laughed at the time, but it turned out she was actually very serious. “No, no,” she had told him. “If you were black and had a beard and your face was differently shaped and you had square glasses you’d be the same person!!”

            With excitement in her eyes, Assata added, “We should start our own workshop!”

            “We could use my workbench!” Brad said, throwing his arms up victoriously and simultaneously knocking his paper cup of milk onto various parts of the room, including Kerry’s plate of food.

            “BRAD!” my sister yelled loudly.

            “Kerry!” My mom looked at her disapprovingly.

            “Mom!”

            My mom stood up. “Brad get up, it’s on your chair,” she said as she walked over to the sink.

            “Oh look, it’s all over the table,” my dad wisely observed, pointing at the knocked over cup. “We need a sponge.”

            “Oh look, it’s all over MY FOOD,” Kerry countered.

            “Fool don’t trip,” Assata calmly soothed Kerry.

            “Yeah, fool!” Brad added.

            “Bradford,” my mother warned from the sink. “Don’t use that word.”

            “Mom, it’s not a bad word,” I explained. “It’s –”

            “I don’t care, I don’t want him saying it!”

            “Brad would you like some more milk now?” my dad asked.

            Brad looked at my father for a moment, then, in a fit of rage, yelled in a singsong voice, “HATE IT!” He smashed his cup for effect and threw it on the ground. I’m not exactly sure what he was hoping to accomplish with this impetuous display of emotion, but I doubt it was the scolding he received from my parents.

            I glanced over at Assata, who was uncharacteristically quiet. She was bent over and poking around at her food suspiciously. Kerry was also watching her attack the dinner plate. She asked Assata if she was doing alright.

            Assata picked up a green object and brought it close to her face. She crinkled her nose, sniffing. “This thing that we’re eating. It smells like tea. Is it tea?”

            “Are you serious?” I asked her. “They’re artichokes.”

            She kept looking at the object, turning it over and squeezing it. “But it’s tea, right? It’s a form of tea?”

            “What? No, they’re artichokes.”

            Assata stared at me, un-phased by my words.

            “They’re vegetables!!”

            Assata looked back down at the green plant in her hand. “But smell that, Moms,” she said, turning to my mom, who had just returned to the table. “That’s tea. Am I right?”

            “No,” my mom answered eloquently.

            “Artichaut!” added Brad. “It means artichoke,” he clarified for us lowly English speakers.

            My mom, appearing distressed, looked out at the table. “Somebody should get a sponge,” she recommended. “The table’s a mess.”

            “Mom. That’s what you just got up for,” I reminded her.

            “What? No, Megan I do all the work around this house, you get up and get one.”

            “Well, today I found a banana slug,” Brad stated matter-of-factly.

            “Really?” Assata asked. “That’s great!” The rest of us lacked her enthusiasm. We are used to his stories of amphibian findings, and we know what happens in the end.

            Brad shrugged. “Yeah, well I killed it.”

            Assata’s reaction was similar to that of my dad’s in the summer of ’96 when my family, at my dad’s behest, went fossil hunting (oh wait that was also the summers of ’95, ’97, ’98, ’99…) and Kerry defiled one of the rocks by drawing on it and then later claimed that she had found an ancient message from our ancestors. In other words, a reaction of severe disapproval for destroying nature.

            While Assata recovered, Kerry contributed her own personal experience of animal slaughter. “Oh, once I was at my friend’s house…see Dad, my FRIEND’S house…and her brother came and he –”

            “Okay, I don’t think I want to hear this story,” my mom cut in.

            “Mom, it’s not even that gross!”

            “But I’m eating. I’m trying to have a nice dinner here. I don’t want to listen –”

            Turning to my mom, Brad interrupted. “Mommy?” he asked. “I really wanted a brother.”

            My mom cleared her throat. “One of you is more than enough, thank you very much.”

            Brad shook his head. “No but Momma, my friend Collin has TWO brothers.”

            “Yeah well isn’t he lucky. I’m sure his mom is just having the time of her life,” my mother responded.

            My dad cut in. “Bradford, don’t you like your sisters?”

            Brad looked at Kerry and me. “But maybe we could just trade one,” he said. “Like maybe Megan could go live with Collin and we could keep Collin’s brother! Because then Collin could have a sister too!”

            “Hey!” I cried.

            “But wouldn’t you miss her?” my Dad asked, trying to make me feel better.

            “Well I don’t know…” Brad thought for a minute. “I like mom better.” He paused again and turned to Assata, explaining, “Because I came out of her tummy.”

            “That’s right you did!” my mom said, high-fiving Brad. Because he was already standing up for the high-five, Brad did a few dance moves.

            “Wow! I like how you use your body to do interpretation!” Assata cried, clapping.

            My dad was less impressed. “Brad please join us at the table,” he said.

            Brad continued dancing, even adding in a few lines from a song he heard on the radio awhile ago. “Shake that laffy taffy! Laffy taffy!”

            My mom shook her head and glared at me and Kerry.

            “What?!” we said together.

            “I think this is great!” Assata said. “Brad should be the next Aaron Carter! He already can rap, he’s got the moves. He could collaborate with the top artists of today!” She nodded her head seriously.

            In the middle of Brad’s dance, the doorbell rang.

            “Oooh! The door!” Brad squealed.

            “Don’t get up Bradford, it’s probably a solicitor,” my mom said.

            But no one heard her because Kerry was screaming “I’ll get it!” and then Brad was screaming “Nuh uh, I’ll will. Because I’m the fastest!” and then Assata was screaming because everyone else was screaming. The three of them left and raced to the door.

            My dad took a deep breath and slowly stood up. “When your mother tells you something…” he began, walking out of the room. “…you listen. Bradford? Are you hearing this? Brad! Get back in here!”

            And so my mom and I were left at the table. Like once when we were all hiking and my dad, Brad, and Kerry ventured off the designated path to go pursue some elk, and my mom and I were left to watch the hiking gear. But we were really bored so we climbed a medium sized hill that overlooked the trail and serenaded passing hikers with classics such as “Climb Every Mountain” (made popular by Mother Abbess in the movie “The Sound of Music”). After the elk had been fully disturbed (they were chased down the mountainside by my siblings), the rest of the family came back to reluctantly claim us. But the point was that my mom and I were abandoned then and we were abandoned now.

            “I’ve lost my appetite,” my mom said, looking at her food.

            “Mom. Kerry didn’t even get to the story.”

            “Yes, but knowing her, I can just imagine what it would have been about.”

            “Guys?” Brad wandered back in. “I think,” he said, pausing to take a big gulp. “I think, I am going to explode.”

            “What’s wrong honey?” my mom asked.

            Brad looked at us sadly. “I ate too much because I wanted to be faster than my friends Agu and Erik.” He looked forlornly down at his stomach. “But I didn’t know that this was gonna happen.”

            “Oh, that’s terrible. I’m sorry. Why don’t you take your plate to the sink?”

            I grabbed my plate as well and walked to the sink.

            Another successful dinner.