Sunday Dinner

crazy dumbsaint of the mind

[photo courtesy art.com]

     "Here. You better hand me that knife and let me do it."

    I wasn't as adept at sliding the blade of the paring knife under the skin of a potato the way my Grandmother was. "You waste too much of the potato that way.", she chastised me. She said it as if it was important but staring down at the pile of peelings on the newspaper spread out before me, I couldn't see that the little flesh that was left clinging to the paper bag-brown skins would make any difference at all. 

     I was left to shred lettuce for the tossed salad while she precisely peeled the potatoes. On the newspaper , a new pile grew in front of her next to my clumsily hacked skins. There was scarcely any flesh in hers. Then I understood. 

     The potatoes stripped of their skins made a satisfying thunk as she dropped them into the hammered aluminum pot, it's mottled surface gleaming like a metallic reptilian beast basking in sunlight. In the background , old country music twanged away as the engine of a Camaro rumbled into the driveway  .The slam of the door announced the arrival of the first attendee to that week's Sunday Dinner.

     At dinner, the linen tablecloth would be spread beneath the "good china" ,with it's delicate ,pink sakura resting on gold branches. The yellow Pyrex that held the potatoes cast a warm glow, making them look as if they'd already been buttered. The roast beef was stringy and dry. My Grandfather would saw away at it, his Marine Corp bulldog tattoo on his bicep shaking back and forth like it had just been given a bath and was trying to rid itself of the the excess. My Grandmother would give an annoyed sigh as my Aunt picked through the salad to cherry pick the most divine tomato chunks and succulent cucumber slices, foregoing lettuce and much else the salad had to offer.  

My Grandmother called her Picky-Picky behind her back, an ode to her annoying habit. 

     Conversations changed to keep time with current events, politics and the local gossip .The timing of dinner was scheduled around kick-off times and  the opening pitch. Sunday Dinner itself remained a constant. The only thing that changed was the people. I was too young to recognize or understand the shift and divide but I knew it was there. Whatever it was, it suddenly made Sunday Dinner turn from the thing that sustained me and made me feel secure to the thing I dreaded. Later on, I could watch The Jerry Springer Show and joke as the chairs went flying, "Oh, look. It's just like when my family gets together."

    For awhile, both matriarch and patriarch tried to retain the sense of order. My Grandmother would sadly plead with everyone and when that failed, my Grandfather would slam his fist on the table, sending the dishes jumping from their place in a panic, much like I did in my chair. Through clenched teeth, he'd demand, "Now,that's enough! You're all going to shut up and sit here and eat your damn dinner and enjoy it."  A lazy centrifuge was at work, separating the contents of the family until all that was left was me as sediment, deposited at the Sunday dinner table alone.

    And even I couldn't keep from fucking it up. I hadn't ever been taught to keep my opinions to myself. Sunday dinner conversation brought forth the fact that I hadn't been a product exclusively of my environment. Alas, I wasn't the dutiful Christian granddaughter after all, but worse than that, I was a bleeding heart liberal who protested the Gulf War and would have chained myself to a threatened tree if given a chance. I was on par with Jane Fonda. Arguments were had, things were said (very bad things) and I realized that although I hadn't been taught to be seen and not heard, there were conditions. Think alike or be cast aside.

    I now have a penchant for bright colored vintage Pyrex, embroidered linens and cast iron pans. These are  things that help draw in the sunlight memories of a dead family tradition before it all went to shit. I shunned the practice of family traditions with the family I have crafted for myself. I hated to think of setting my babies up for disappointment  at losing something that felt special. Mostly, I thought about my Grandmother's voice on the phone on those lonely Sunday dinners. Her voice would raise an octave and strain as she asked, "So, are you going to make it to dinner this week?" ,and sadness as she heard the negative reply on the other end. Selfishly, I didn't want that to be me someday.

    Given the assignment to talk about family traditions as part of a unit on culture in school, my daughter threw up her hands, desperate for something she could talk about. Finally she settled on the glass Betty Boop angel  that sits atop our tree every year during the holiday. "But it's not even really a Christmas tree because we don't celebrate Christmas. It's a Yule tree. How do I explain that ?" 

     For that matter ,it's not even a real tree. It's just a fake,plastic one that I picked up on Freecycle years ago. Every year since, , I pull it out of the box around the time of the year I have dubbed The Holler Daze , and hum Radiohead's "Fake Plastic Trees" to myself  as I assemble according to the color coding . The little ones take charge of the lower branches. When it looks close enough to being a tree, we give it the fluffing treatment. Then the lights go on, twinkly white ones. Always white lights and only white lights. It's the one thing Martha Stewart and I can agree on completely. The ornaments emerge next, everyone excited about the ones they recognize . My Great-Grandmother's delicate glass bulbs are placed high on the branches above the handmade ones brought home  from school  every year. Lastly, Betty Boop makes her grand entrance. Her pristine white feather wings get more of a proper fluffing treatment than the tree branches. Her white lustrous gown gets a final shine and then finally, she's hoisted on top, taking center stage. 

     We all stand below and gaze up at her on her precarious perch. One of these bitter winter days, I'm sure she'll fall to the floor . I'll heave a sad sign before stooping to sweep up the shattered pieces.

From the Judges:

You took a very unexpected twist with this assignment. I was reading through the first part, where you were describing the family dinners, and I started to get bored with it. I started skimming the rest of the post, and then I was like 'Wait... what?' And I went back up and re-read everything I had skimmed through. Somewhere inside me, I was hoping for a happy ending, but I knew it wasn't coming. It was a nice change, and something very unexpected, for an assignment about family tradition.

-Tessa Taboo

It was long and wordy. Must everything get an adjective attached to it? I too was getting bored and wasn't expecting the ending. I actually liked the twist, some traditions just aren't meant to stand the test of time. This seemed like it should have been a chapter in a book as opposed to a blog post.

-Daddy's in Charge?

Wow; talk about raw and honest! You definitely nailed the "getting to know you" part of this post. I liked that you opened up so much at the end about how your family "traditions" have affected you and your own fears or hesitations about starting traditions of your own.
I thought it was a bit long, too. But something in the ending made me go back and read the whole thing more carefully, which is something I don't often do when reading long posts.

-The Spaghetti Westerner

So honest and sad. Definitely not expected for a week of posts about family traditions.

It started too slow for me though. I understand you wanted to describe every detail of the family dinner to your readers, but I guess it was just too long for me. It did pick up towards the middle and I think it just went on beautifully from there.

-Bay Area Mommy

I have to say, this was actually one of my favorites. It was a bit longer than some of the other entries, but you never lost my attention. From your engaging introductory sentence to your rich descriptions to the anti-Hollywood ending, I thought this post was excellent.

I really have only two recommendations:
1) Proof read. If you're going to lose me, it's in the syntax and grammatical errors. The amount of errors seems disproportionate to your level of writing.
2) Don't putz out on the ending. It felt a little anti-climactic. Then again, I stumbled over the extra spacing and misspelled word in the last paragraph, which could have something to do with it.

Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this dark and visceral post.

-From the Bungalow

This post surprised me. At first I had the whole "Norman Rockwell" painting in my head, the perfect family sitting down to a peaceful dinner. I enjoyed the descriptive words as it helped me form a picture in my head. I could see that Pyrex dish and Grandpa's tattoo. I love how you made it so real for me. We rarely had any peace and polite conversation at our meals as well and this brought me there, but not in a bad way. I love the raw honesty you show here. I agree it may be a tad long, but I enjoyed reading it.

-You Know It Happens At Your House Too (Guest Judge)