unilateral rebellion. The only hope I had was that my dad was feeling similarly disgusted and would put an end to this madness.
A few hours later, while we boys were hanging out in the living room before dinner, my mom presented us with that evening’s menu. “Turkey soup,” she announced, wearing an apron and holding a large spoon, as strange smells emanated from the kitchen behind her.
I looked at my dad, who kept his eyes on the evening news, unfazed. I was nervous about my physical ability to consume the meal my mom was about to serve, and as I usually do when I’m nervous, I voiced a positive thought in an effort to will the best possible outcome.
“I like turkey, right?” I said.
My dad continued to stare at the television. “Are you asking me, or are you telling me?” he said without so much as glancing my way.
“I’m telling you, I like turkey.”
“Okay,” he said, pausing for a moment before adding, “What the fuck does that mean for me?”
I could tell he was in a bad mood, so I ended the conversation. Voicing my affinity for turkey had helped, and I felt more confident about being able to eat the soup.
A few minutes later, we sat down to dinner and my mom filled all of our bowls with a brown, chunky liquid that resembled what I imagine a grizzly bear’s diarrhea looks like. There were white chunks in it as well as red chunks, and it was the consistency of a watery bowl of oatmeal. All of us looked at one another, even my mom. I stuck my spoon in the bowl and was careful to maneuver around the chunks and ladle up only liquid. I brought it to my lips slowly and purposefully, as if I were a spy ingesting a suicide pellet. Then I took a sip. And spit it out.
“Jesus H. Christ, we’re trying to have a meal here, goddamn it,” my dad shouted, dropping his spoon on the table.
“I can’t eat this! I tried!” I said, as Evan laughed.
“You didn’t try,” my mom replied.
“I did! I can’t eat it! It’s too gross!”
“This is how poor kids eat. This is the point of us eating like this, to understand what people less fortunate than us go through,” my mom responded.
“I understand! I just want to eat something else now!” I said as my eyes welled with tears.
“Everybody just be quiet. Let’s just shut the fuck up and eat,” my dad said.
Then he put a spoonful of soup in his mouth.
“Jesus Christ. This is god-awful. I can’t eat this,” he said after swallowing it.
“See!” I exclaimed.
“No, you two are eating this,” he said, looking at me and Evan. “I’m not.”
“WHAT?!?!” I shouted.
I got up, stormed out of the dining room, ran into my room, and slammed the door. I assumed that within a few seconds, my mom would open the door, say something that would make me feel better, and invite me back to the table for a proper dinner, like spaghetti with meatballs or chicken and potatoes. In the meantime, maybe she’d even drive to Jack in the Box and buy me a spicy crispy chicken sandwich, my favorite, to make up for this unjust and traumatic culinary experiment.
Ten minutes went by, and no one knocked on my door. I made a pact with myself to not leave my room until someone came for me. Another ten minutes went by, then an hour, then three hours, and suddenly it was ten o’clock, my bedtime. I turned the light out and crawled into bed, fuming and hungry. Then suddenly my door opened.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, trying to sound angry and assuming it was her tucking me in as she did every night.
“Nah, it’s me,” said my dad, his large, shadowy figure approaching me, lit only by the light from the hallway behind him.
“Oh. Hi,” I replied coldly.
He sat down on the bed and laid his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a pain in the ass, but I love you,” he said, then laughed to himself.
I didn’t respond.
“I know you’re pissed off. I even understand
“No, you don’t,” I said confidently.
“Oh please, you’re ten. I think I understand a goddamned ten-year-old.”
Our conversation was not making me less upset, and he could tell. The tone of his voice softened.
“I know you think if you’re eating that shit, I should have to eat it. And then I said I wasn’t going to and you had to, and now you’re pissed off, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been poor. So has your mom. There are a lot of things in my life that I try really hard to make sure you never have to experience.”
“So why can’t this be one of them?” I asked.
“Son, you’re spending a week eating shitty food. Your mom spent her whole childhood hungry. When you get up and throw a fit like you did tonight, it makes her feel like shit. It’s like you’re saying you don’t care what she went through. That make sense?”
I told him that it did, and he told me why my behavior had also upset him.
“Food was a huge part of my life growing up. It’s how we made our living, not just what we ate. So when you throw a fucking tantrum about it, it gets to me,” he said.
“But why do you not have to eat it? Mom’s eating it, and she already knows what it’s like. Why don’t you have to eat it?” I persisted.
He sat quiet for a second, then took his hand off my shoulder.
“Well, two reasons. The first one is that I know the value of a dollar, because I work every goddamned day to make them—something you’ve never done.”
“But Mom works, too,” I interrupted.
“Well, that brings me to my second reason: Your mom’s a lot fucking nicer than I am.”
Then he kissed me on my forehead and left the room.
On Videotaping Christmas Morning
“Okay, smile when you open your present. . . . No, smile and look at the camera, dum-dum.”
On Going Camping with the Family
“No, I’m gonna stay home. You can take a family vacation, and I’ll take a vacation from the family. Trust me, it’ll make both of our time more enjoyable.”
On Receiving Straight As on My Report Card
“Hot damn! You’re a smart kid—I don’t care what people say about you! . . . I’m kidding, nobody says you’re not smart. They say other stuff, but not that.”
On Getting Stung by a Bee
“Okay, okay, calm down. Does your throat feel like it’s closing up? . . . Do you have to take a crap? . . . No, that don’t have anything to do with bee stings, it’s just you’re pacing back and forth, I thought maybe you had to go.”
On How to Tell When Food’s Gone Bad
“How the fuck should I know if it’s still good? Eat it. You get sick, it wasn’t good. You people, you think I got microscopic fucking eyes.”
