Bundle of Laughs
Four of us sit around the table in silence, chewing our vegetable lasagnes and being intensely aware of the harsh light overhead and the awkward clashes of contemporary jazz music turned up too loud. My brother, incensed by the clear lack of meat, massacres his food ferociously with a fork and snarls at my mother, before throwing his cutlery into the mush of red and green and white food in despair.
"Don't be rude," my father snaps, "and eat the food we cooked for you."
"You pulled it from the freezer and pushed it into the oven. Hardly cooking."
My father takes brother's plate away, brother throws iceberg lettuce leaf into father's glass of wine in retalliation and silent, teenagerish protest. Brother rescues plate from oven, drops plate, retrieves plate and kicks the oven door.
"We need a new oven." He states to no-one, slamming his plate down hard on the table. We flinch.
"Ohhhhh for God's sake. LOOK at my knife." My brother points at his lasagne covered knife. "You did that!" He points a finger accusingly at my mother, who snorts indignantly and raises one perfect eyebrow.
"You did that yourself."
A brief debate persues, by the end of which no-one is quite sure who has won, if anyone. My father fishes the iceberg lettuce leaf from his white wine in silence. My brother slumps over his plate, his head lolling (as if not quite attached properly) against his right hand. His elbow is on the table, an offence in itself. Another brief debate. My father breezes from the room in glum silence. He has not said a word. He is angry about not having been consulted about the New Computer, perhaps. He remains unfathomable.
My brother stamps into the kitchen to fetch the grapes. "Shut up," he mutters darkly at the wall. Even the kitchen wall is against him, he thinks. He plucks a grape defiantly from the stalk and stands chewing it. He deliberately has not washed it. From the corner of my eye, I watch my mother watching the triumphant glint in his eyes. She turns slightly purple.
"Don't be rude," my father snaps, "and eat the food we cooked for you."
"You pulled it from the freezer and pushed it into the oven. Hardly cooking."
My father takes brother's plate away, brother throws iceberg lettuce leaf into father's glass of wine in retalliation and silent, teenagerish protest. Brother rescues plate from oven, drops plate, retrieves plate and kicks the oven door.
"We need a new oven." He states to no-one, slamming his plate down hard on the table. We flinch.
"Ohhhhh for God's sake. LOOK at my knife." My brother points at his lasagne covered knife. "You did that!" He points a finger accusingly at my mother, who snorts indignantly and raises one perfect eyebrow.
"You did that yourself."
A brief debate persues, by the end of which no-one is quite sure who has won, if anyone. My father fishes the iceberg lettuce leaf from his white wine in silence. My brother slumps over his plate, his head lolling (as if not quite attached properly) against his right hand. His elbow is on the table, an offence in itself. Another brief debate. My father breezes from the room in glum silence. He has not said a word. He is angry about not having been consulted about the New Computer, perhaps. He remains unfathomable.
My brother stamps into the kitchen to fetch the grapes. "Shut up," he mutters darkly at the wall. Even the kitchen wall is against him, he thinks. He plucks a grape defiantly from the stalk and stands chewing it. He deliberately has not washed it. From the corner of my eye, I watch my mother watching the triumphant glint in his eyes. She turns slightly purple.
kiwiqueen - 14. Dec, 22:53