We had sweet potato fries for dinner last night.
My mother had worked pretty hard on the meal, harder than she had in weeks, and cooking meals is sort of her creative platform. There was chicken and salad and a big bowl of avocado sauce: not guacamole, but avocado sauce.
None of us had ever seen anything like it, but my mother's leaps of creativity are almost always successful, so we trust them. If not, it is only for having gone too far, which, in the art world, is usually a good thing.
She was in a fairly bad mood, because no one had been brave enough to pour enough of the green foamy sauce onto their food, and because she had worked hard on it. My siblings and stepfather and I were eagerly reassuring her of her talent and heart, and our love and appreciation for her and all that she does. She pouted and rolled her eyes and passive-aggressively stabbed at her plate with her fork.
"I found a bullet," my brother said suddenly and unexpectedly, producing out of his breast pocket a small round copper object of significant size and shape.
"Where did you find that?!" my stepdad asked, suddenly offended at its presence.
"On Green Street," he said, turning the bullet around in his fingers, searching desperately for affirmation and praise for his discovery. "It makes me wonder, you know, why was it there? What size is it, what gun, you know? Who fired it? Why?"
"Put it away!"
"Okay." He tucked it back into his pocket, with all the shame and sorrow in his eyes of a child whose refreshingly strange excitement has been shot down.
The dog was scratching at the backdoor, and my stepdad opened it and spoke to her in his special dog voice, which I have always found demeaning, even though most people do it. He walked out and closed the door, while my mother glared at the bowl half full of avocado sauce which would not be eaten.
My stepdad returned a few moments later with his hands cupped together, face filled with childish excitement as the dog slipped into the house from behind him. "Guys, guess what I found!"
"What?!" The kids kicked their little legs under the table, grinning and laughing.
"A leafbug!" he said, holding onto the edge of its wings with his fingers so it didn't fly away.
The three children cheered. "A leafbug?" my mom said, turning around. "Hey, I wanna hold it!" He placed it into her hands, and the kids climbed off the benches and crowded around her.
They marveled at its smallness and color, its delicate wings, the unbelievable sureness of life in its little green frame. My brother reached his hand out to pick it up, and my mother told him, "Hey, it's my turn!" They were all just six years old again, fighting over holding a bug at the dinner table.
"Come on, Heather," my stepdad said. "It might fly off."
Right as he said that, the bug spread its leaves and flew clumsily and noisily into the air over the table. The girls screamed, and the boy shouted, and my stepdad scoffed, "Heather!" and the bug landed in the middle of the almost-empty pan of fries, folding its wings, embarrassed.
"See?" my mother said. "It didn't go very far."
No one did anything but sit back down and finish eating. We watched the insect wander around the pan for a while. "I think it's missing a leg," my stepdad said, because it was limping like a cripple, and we all turned our heads to look it over. Sure enough, one of its back legs was missing. We made small sympathetic sounds, watching it limp around the pan, and I made a joke about having a leafbug over for dinner, and my stepdad said I should take it outside.
"Grab it by the wings," he said.
"I'm not going to do that," I apologized, and scooped it into my hands, explaining about damaging moths' wings and how maybe leafbugs are similar in that regard, and he nodded.
I sat outside and opened my hands, letting the leafbug wander around my fingers. It was an impressive little beast, really. Its tiny body heaved in and out, catching its breath from the adventure, twitching its antennae to taste the sweet outdoor air again. It crawled to the tips of my fingers and nibbled the potato grease off of its little hands and feet, one by one, taking its time before lifting off over the fence and away.
My mother had worked pretty hard on the meal, harder than she had in weeks, and cooking meals is sort of her creative platform. There was chicken and salad and a big bowl of avocado sauce: not guacamole, but avocado sauce.
None of us had ever seen anything like it, but my mother's leaps of creativity are almost always successful, so we trust them. If not, it is only for having gone too far, which, in the art world, is usually a good thing.
She was in a fairly bad mood, because no one had been brave enough to pour enough of the green foamy sauce onto their food, and because she had worked hard on it. My siblings and stepfather and I were eagerly reassuring her of her talent and heart, and our love and appreciation for her and all that she does. She pouted and rolled her eyes and passive-aggressively stabbed at her plate with her fork.
"I found a bullet," my brother said suddenly and unexpectedly, producing out of his breast pocket a small round copper object of significant size and shape.
"Where did you find that?!" my stepdad asked, suddenly offended at its presence.
"On Green Street," he said, turning the bullet around in his fingers, searching desperately for affirmation and praise for his discovery. "It makes me wonder, you know, why was it there? What size is it, what gun, you know? Who fired it? Why?"
"Put it away!"
"Okay." He tucked it back into his pocket, with all the shame and sorrow in his eyes of a child whose refreshingly strange excitement has been shot down.
The dog was scratching at the backdoor, and my stepdad opened it and spoke to her in his special dog voice, which I have always found demeaning, even though most people do it. He walked out and closed the door, while my mother glared at the bowl half full of avocado sauce which would not be eaten.
My stepdad returned a few moments later with his hands cupped together, face filled with childish excitement as the dog slipped into the house from behind him. "Guys, guess what I found!"
"What?!" The kids kicked their little legs under the table, grinning and laughing.
"A leafbug!" he said, holding onto the edge of its wings with his fingers so it didn't fly away.
The three children cheered. "A leafbug?" my mom said, turning around. "Hey, I wanna hold it!" He placed it into her hands, and the kids climbed off the benches and crowded around her.
They marveled at its smallness and color, its delicate wings, the unbelievable sureness of life in its little green frame. My brother reached his hand out to pick it up, and my mother told him, "Hey, it's my turn!" They were all just six years old again, fighting over holding a bug at the dinner table.
"Come on, Heather," my stepdad said. "It might fly off."
Right as he said that, the bug spread its leaves and flew clumsily and noisily into the air over the table. The girls screamed, and the boy shouted, and my stepdad scoffed, "Heather!" and the bug landed in the middle of the almost-empty pan of fries, folding its wings, embarrassed.
"See?" my mother said. "It didn't go very far."
No one did anything but sit back down and finish eating. We watched the insect wander around the pan for a while. "I think it's missing a leg," my stepdad said, because it was limping like a cripple, and we all turned our heads to look it over. Sure enough, one of its back legs was missing. We made small sympathetic sounds, watching it limp around the pan, and I made a joke about having a leafbug over for dinner, and my stepdad said I should take it outside.
"Grab it by the wings," he said.
"I'm not going to do that," I apologized, and scooped it into my hands, explaining about damaging moths' wings and how maybe leafbugs are similar in that regard, and he nodded.
I sat outside and opened my hands, letting the leafbug wander around my fingers. It was an impressive little beast, really. Its tiny body heaved in and out, catching its breath from the adventure, twitching its antennae to taste the sweet outdoor air again. It crawled to the tips of my fingers and nibbled the potato grease off of its little hands and feet, one by one, taking its time before lifting off over the fence and away.
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