Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I Hate Peas
Dad sets at the head of the table and likes to watch The Porter Wagner Show while he eats supper.
I am in the first grade. Home alone with my father, eating supper which includes a giant helping of stinky, mushy, grayish canned peas. Peas repulse me. I am not allowed to get up from the table until I eat the peas. Thus the battle ensues. I squinch my face and try feeding them to the dog. But Dad catches on and throws the dog out.
Slowly, the minutes tick by. I set at the table with my feet dangling. Dad sets in his arm chair like a despot on a throne. He seems taller. I am getting bored with this standoff but the more my father presses, the more repulsive the peas become. By now they are not only mushy and stinky, but cold as well, and there is no way in hell I am going to eat those peas.
Its seems like we've been setting for hours. Dad is cajoling, threatening, even bribing me to eat the damn peas. But I am obstinate and never realized vegetables wielded such power.
Time is strange and I have no recollection of how this ordeal ended. But I think it was with my dad in exasperation because, to this day, I have never eaten a single pea. And dad and I never went to battle over food again.
Occasionally, at family reunions, when he is in a jovial mood, Dad will say, "Michelle, have you eaten any peas?" And I always respond, "No dad, I haven't. I won that battle."