Pumpkin Pies Part 3
The third installment of my short story...
Thanksgiving morning K and I head out to Brooklyn. We braved Turnpike traffic and made it home in time for lunch. Before heading to Green Peas’ dinner my boyfriend and I were stopping at another uncle’s house for Thanksgiving lunch. I have to hit both sets of uncle’s for Thanksgiving because if I don’t I will never hear the end of it. It’s like being the child of divorced parents only worse. If I missed the holiday one of them would be so offended that I would receive a phone call from a distant relative as to why I was absent. In order to avoid any unpleasantness I make sure that I attend both events every year.
When we arrive we are greeted by my family and I hand over one of the pies to my Aunt Elvis (nicknamed so because her entire living room is adorned with everything Elvis). I proudly tell her that it’s a pumpkin pie that I made myself.
“You made it yourself?” she asks.
“Yes” I said beaming.
“You actually know how to cook?” interrupts my cousin JJ from the kitchen.
“I know how to cook” I replied. I could feel my face flush.
“She made a pie?” asks my cousin’s boyfriend Chapo just as my cousin smacks his hand away from the potato salad he almost sneaked a taste of.
“Goddamn. Is it so far fetched to think that I could have possibly made a pie?” I thought as I forced a smile on my face.
When we are seated at the dining room table my cousin asks me if I was planning on going to aunt Green Peas. Knowing full well that they know the answer to this question I say, “Yes, we are. Sometime around 5 p.m.”.
Swallowing hard because I know what is going to come next JJ says “Watch out, she once put green peas in her rice”.
I look over at K and say “And to this day they still won’t let anyone forget it”
K looked slightly unsure of what to say and voted to say nothing. Which was a good move on his part being a white boy and never having heard the story before.
A long, long time ago in 1995 my uncle John and his family was invited to dinner over at his brother’s (who is married to aunt Green Pea). On the menu was fried chicken with a teriyaki glaze, a tossed salad, red beans and white rice. Everyone sits down to eat and we start passing plates around. When the rice was passed I would see the look of horror on some individuals who will remain nameless. As we sat there and ate my cousin Tom who was about 10 years old at the time says, “Why are there peas in the rice”? Everyone stopped eating. I couldn’t bear to look up off of my plate. My uncle John made some statement to the effect of “Shut up”. My aunt Green Peas said something about how she wanted to try something new. Tom replied “We never have peas in our rice. It’s nasty”. I was mortified. Everyone glared at Tom and he never said another word.
This was the last time that John’s family was invited to dinner and Aunt Green Peas never put peas in her rice again.
Thanksgiving morning K and I head out to Brooklyn. We braved Turnpike traffic and made it home in time for lunch. Before heading to Green Peas’ dinner my boyfriend and I were stopping at another uncle’s house for Thanksgiving lunch. I have to hit both sets of uncle’s for Thanksgiving because if I don’t I will never hear the end of it. It’s like being the child of divorced parents only worse. If I missed the holiday one of them would be so offended that I would receive a phone call from a distant relative as to why I was absent. In order to avoid any unpleasantness I make sure that I attend both events every year.
When we arrive we are greeted by my family and I hand over one of the pies to my Aunt Elvis (nicknamed so because her entire living room is adorned with everything Elvis). I proudly tell her that it’s a pumpkin pie that I made myself.
“You made it yourself?” she asks.
“Yes” I said beaming.
“You actually know how to cook?” interrupts my cousin JJ from the kitchen.
“I know how to cook” I replied. I could feel my face flush.
“She made a pie?” asks my cousin’s boyfriend Chapo just as my cousin smacks his hand away from the potato salad he almost sneaked a taste of.
“Goddamn. Is it so far fetched to think that I could have possibly made a pie?” I thought as I forced a smile on my face.
When we are seated at the dining room table my cousin asks me if I was planning on going to aunt Green Peas. Knowing full well that they know the answer to this question I say, “Yes, we are. Sometime around 5 p.m.”.
Swallowing hard because I know what is going to come next JJ says “Watch out, she once put green peas in her rice”.
I look over at K and say “And to this day they still won’t let anyone forget it”
K looked slightly unsure of what to say and voted to say nothing. Which was a good move on his part being a white boy and never having heard the story before.
A long, long time ago in 1995 my uncle John and his family was invited to dinner over at his brother’s (who is married to aunt Green Pea). On the menu was fried chicken with a teriyaki glaze, a tossed salad, red beans and white rice. Everyone sits down to eat and we start passing plates around. When the rice was passed I would see the look of horror on some individuals who will remain nameless. As we sat there and ate my cousin Tom who was about 10 years old at the time says, “Why are there peas in the rice”? Everyone stopped eating. I couldn’t bear to look up off of my plate. My uncle John made some statement to the effect of “Shut up”. My aunt Green Peas said something about how she wanted to try something new. Tom replied “We never have peas in our rice. It’s nasty”. I was mortified. Everyone glared at Tom and he never said another word.
This was the last time that John’s family was invited to dinner and Aunt Green Peas never put peas in her rice again.
