Garlic and Onion Pork Roast

A Story by Brooke_Alyse
    Over Christmas break I saw my family. And by family, I
mean, the reconstructed mother and my two, ever
changing, fifteen year old opposite sisters, with the
same birthday. Well, of course, I saw my freshly
plumped father and his little Cherub of a home-wrecker
girlfriend, but the bitterness of the situation is
never as sweet and tart until written on paper. And
dinners with them are usually fast and in a drive thru
rather than at a modern wooden dinner table with
benches for seats on the length of fake wood. Dinners
with my mother and sisters have foundation, and they
are merry in the complaints about being over worked.
But, I am home for the holidays and tonight; I am well
over due for my favorite dinner, a luxury since school
cafeterias haunted my schedule. In my spare time, when
mother’s time isn’t as daunting, dinner for the
royalty is garlic and onion pork roast, accompanied
with mashed potatoes, straight from the box, and corn,
straight from the can and Crystal Lite, because it
didn't have sugar in it.
    Now that I have ventured out into the world and have
gotten away from Mishawaka, Indiana, my family has
found new appreciation for me. This is proven by how
nice my family is to me when I'm back, which doesn't
last long, but at least there are tears when I leave
and bouts of joy when I'm there to baby-sit. One kind
gesture that does last, while I'm home, that really
proves how popular I have become in my absence, is the
way, whenever I tell a story, there is non-stop
laughter. When I act out in a random spurt of energy
and a smart-a*s comment, there is always laughter,
even if the words coming out of my mouth are not the
least bit funny. And if not everyone laughs, I always
have Chelsea to depend on. She's fifteen, my sister,
and deeply confused in the fashion area. But for the
most part, she's exactly like me with A.D.H.D. and a
serious lack of motivation and maturity in life
outside of sewing and video games.
     It was only a few days after Christmas; the holiday
cheer had faded when our cat tore down the bottom row
of fake tree limbs our Christmas tree and my mother
couldn’t handle his destruction and odd fear of the
rug underneath the tree. My mother ripped away at
decorations as I slept on the couch, in between dreams
of my friends I left back in the dorms. It was well
into the late afternoon by the time I woke up and
dinner for the royalty was cooking in the small
apartment kitchen, the smell engulfed the brown carpet
and maroon couch that was left in the living room
after the brutal beating it took with a broom and
stripping of Christmas joy. Dinner at my mother's
house wasn't anything special and my mother knew it.
It was kind of sad, the way I stayed in my pajama
pants and tank top, bra-less, shower-less, and
sporting lines on my skin from the afghan on the
couch. My mother got bossy about who delivered drinks
and who was to compliment her relentlessly on her
efforts of the high-class meal. She made my sisters
set up the table, using the good plates and the good
utensils with water stains, and the snowman
saltshaker. She had missed some Christmas glee! This
was a hopeful night.
     The food was delicious and my cell-phone never rang
while we were eating. My mother's quiet, reserved,
pissy attitude toward my sisters constant bickering
served my stomach well as I tuned out anyone under the
age of any sense of legality and devoured the most
perfect dinner my mother had ever made me. And just as
I always do, even when dinner is not fantastic, I
start telling stories. It's a bit of a stand up comedy
I do to razz up the brigades fighting against Indiana
boredom. And at some point in one of my stories there
was some protest as to how the facts from a childhood
memory went. Erika, the other sister, Chelsea's twin,
did not agree. I can’t blame her, I could have been
lying; I’ll say anything to get a laugh.
    In a stern response, I shot back to her, “Oh, Erika,
kiss my grits.” I gave thought to my witty comeback as
the laughter kept coming, a comical pause, “And if you
don't know what grits are ... meet me in the bathroom
in five minutes!”
    And at that moment, I hit a dead ringer. Something
magical happened, that hasn't happened long since my
sisters and I enjoyed over using the term 'crotch
rocket' way too loosely at dinner. Yes, for the first
time in years, Chelsea's red Crystal Lite came pouring
out her nostrils all over her dinner and she began to
choke back laughter. Upon choking, she couldn't
breathe and she started to panic, in a funny way, and
got up to go to the bathroom. Erika had already
collected her food and in disgust was about to storm
off to her bedroom to eat when Chelsea made this
puking noise as she ran to the bathroom. I was still
taken aback at the whole situation, and I stared at
Chelsea while everyone laughed and she coughed away
the puking noise.
    “Oh man, I thought she was going to ralph,” I
announced and this had set off the second trigger.
        My mother, forty one years old, a mother of three
girls, was still pissed with a stern face as the only
appreciation going towards the food she had slaved
over was disgusting animal noises as the beasts, we
call my sisters, devoured their prey. But in a moment
of weakness, in reaction to the situation that she
would in turn be upset about when she had to clean up
the mess, she laughed and began to choke as red
Crystal Lite came out of her nose and onto her good
plates.