Post by goten0040 on Nov 9, 2009 21:29:54 GMT -5
I've been wanting to try to sneak some humor back into my original writings, so I just want some critiques and opinions on how to make this better. I don't think it's QUITE there yet, but it's close.
Dinner time is every night at five o’ clock sharp. If you don’t show up on the dot, you don’t eat. That’s how things work in my family.
Ah, the joys of being white Anglo-Saxon protestants.
So dinner is at five o’ clock, as I said before. My brother comes downstairs after doing his homework, I finish helping Agatha with the dishes, Mother and Father finish their before-dinner cocktails and we all gather around the dining room table. I scoot into my chair, which still seems so much larger than it should be. My feet dangle off the edges, and I fight the childish urge to swing them. Father sits at the head of the table commanding the family with a swift shift of the eyes; his chin held firmly in place. My brother squeezes into the chair next to me, looking rather antsy and fidgety – he probably hasn’t finished his homework. Then, mother takes a seat at the other head of the table, her long delicate fingers curling around a wine glass like vines around a tree.
Dinner isn’t usually particularly interesting. But sometimes the family surprises me.
Father takes a swig of the wine and places the glass elegantly on the table, beginning to cut at the lamb Agatha cooked. As he cuts, he looks at me and my brother.
“Good evening to you both,” he says.
I’ll never understand why we have to be so formal. “Good evening, Father,” I reply, in complete unison with my brother. The greeting is the typical start to every dinner. Still, there’s something even tenser in the atmosphere, considering we’re usually rather rigid on our own. Mother takes a swig of her own wine – a rather large sip if you ask me – then makes a face.
“Oh, my,” she speaks with disgust, ringing the bell on the table. “Agatha?”
Out comes our maid. She’s a ruddy-faced, somewhat overweight woman with dark red hair that’s yanked back behind her head and, though she’s smiling, it’s fairly obvious she doesn’t enjoy her job very much. Of course, she doesn’t know that I hear her complaining to the other maids about it either. The air vents lead from the kitchen, straight to the hallway outside my bedroom.
Sometimes I sit and listen just for some company.
“Yes, Misses?” She speaks in a heavy Irish accent. I remember asking Mother why she spoke like that when I was a bit younger, and she said it was because she isn’t sophisticated like we are.
I’m not quite sure that’s true.
“This wine is quite sour. Please take it away.”
Father’s lips thin ever-so-slightly. “Actually, I made the choice of wine for the evening, darling. I find it to be quite… exquisite.”
My brother and I exchange looks. We know that tone. It’s far too even to mean good news.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, dear,” Mother replies. “I believe it to be quite foul.”
“Perhaps you should taste it once again. Perhaps you haven’t given it enough of a chance.”
“Oh, dear. I think it’s a fairly good assessment that if I dislike it on the first taste, I will more than likely dislike it on the second taste.”
Father folds his hands in front of him, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead. “Please dear, try it again.”
“I’d rather not. Agatha,” she says, turning to the maid. “Please bring me something else.”
“That wine is very well aged,” Father interrupts, just as Agatha leans over to take the glass. Now she doesn’t know what to do, and flounders on the spot. It’s almost like watching a sport. Which way will she go? “I don’t see why one simple sip has spoiled your entire opinion of the wine.”
“Perhaps it is too aged. My mother raised me to drink only what I found enjoyable.” Mother’s voice is just a bit more strident than it was before.
“Oh, your mother?” Father starts to cut his meat again, but this time he’s stabbing at it furiously. “Your mother always seems to know her wine. She drinks so much of it after all.”
Clang! Mother’s silverware clatters against her plate. Her eyes grow large, and her lips draw into a thin, red line. I’m not quite sure why an argument about wine has gotten so far, but I’m old enough to know that it might not be wine they’re arguing about.
Agatha is frozen at the middle of the table.
There’s a hint of a smirk on my father’s face, just tugging slightly at the left side of his lips. This is very dangerous. I think I see the candles flickering.
“Well… my mother enjoys fine wine… as do I,” Her eyes are sparking in rage, her cheeks flushed. “And if I could find wine that suits my tastes, I would certainly drink it more often.”
“Of course, dear, if you wouldn’t allow one bad taste to ruin it for you, you would probably have a better chance to enjoy it.”
“If the wine is bad, it will still be bad. I’m certainly happy you enjoy it, but I do not, so I would rather decline.”
I’m pretty sure they’re not arguing over wine now.
“Well, I do enjoy it.”
“I suppose that explains why you drink it so quickly.”
Oh, now Mother has gained the upper hand. My brother is doing his very best not to laugh now. I’m not completely sure why, but I have a feeling this conversation has taken a very adult turn. The color drains from Father’s face. He’s speechless.
“Sometimes… I…” he fumbles over his words. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a crack in my father’s WASP resolve. “I… can’t help myself. I’m… very stressed at work la-lately, and I may drink my wine a bit more quickly than usual.”
Mother is unimpressed. “I am also stressed, darling. I always thought wine could be a bit of a stress reliever.”
A pregnant silence fills the room. No one is even breathing.
Father bristles, taking in a deep breath, raising his chest. “Well, dear, perhaps it’s not always my fault you don’t enjoy your wine. If you were a little more open minded, you might, dare I say it, have a bit more fun.”
Mother’s eyes darken substantially. “Darling, I’ve already tried to be open minded when it comes to wine. Your idea of good wine is just different than mine.”
“Well, Mrs. Hamilton shares my interests in wine. Perhaps I should just go enjoy it with her instead.”
My brother isn’t even close to chuckling this time.
“I’m finished eating, Agatha,” Mother states plainly, with a crooked, frighteningly bright smile. She picks up her wine glass and walks gracefully around the table. “You do that dear.”
She splashes the wine right in Father’s face, the crimson fluid turning the color of his shirt pink and dousing his hair out of its neat coif. She then quickly and confidently stomps out of the room, calling for Agatha to follow. There is another hideously long silence, my brother and I just staring at our father, waiting for anything to happen.
“How is your lamb?” he asks, oddly smooth.
Falling back in reality, my brother and I begin to eat and make overenthusiastic sounds of enjoyment from the delicious lamb that we could really care less about. Then, Father, still soaked through, picks up his knife and fork, and eats.
I don’t know if I’m ever going to drink wine. It seems like a very complicated beverage.
Like Fine Wine
By Liz Kellicut
By Liz Kellicut
Dinner time is every night at five o’ clock sharp. If you don’t show up on the dot, you don’t eat. That’s how things work in my family.
Ah, the joys of being white Anglo-Saxon protestants.
So dinner is at five o’ clock, as I said before. My brother comes downstairs after doing his homework, I finish helping Agatha with the dishes, Mother and Father finish their before-dinner cocktails and we all gather around the dining room table. I scoot into my chair, which still seems so much larger than it should be. My feet dangle off the edges, and I fight the childish urge to swing them. Father sits at the head of the table commanding the family with a swift shift of the eyes; his chin held firmly in place. My brother squeezes into the chair next to me, looking rather antsy and fidgety – he probably hasn’t finished his homework. Then, mother takes a seat at the other head of the table, her long delicate fingers curling around a wine glass like vines around a tree.
Dinner isn’t usually particularly interesting. But sometimes the family surprises me.
Father takes a swig of the wine and places the glass elegantly on the table, beginning to cut at the lamb Agatha cooked. As he cuts, he looks at me and my brother.
“Good evening to you both,” he says.
I’ll never understand why we have to be so formal. “Good evening, Father,” I reply, in complete unison with my brother. The greeting is the typical start to every dinner. Still, there’s something even tenser in the atmosphere, considering we’re usually rather rigid on our own. Mother takes a swig of her own wine – a rather large sip if you ask me – then makes a face.
“Oh, my,” she speaks with disgust, ringing the bell on the table. “Agatha?”
Out comes our maid. She’s a ruddy-faced, somewhat overweight woman with dark red hair that’s yanked back behind her head and, though she’s smiling, it’s fairly obvious she doesn’t enjoy her job very much. Of course, she doesn’t know that I hear her complaining to the other maids about it either. The air vents lead from the kitchen, straight to the hallway outside my bedroom.
Sometimes I sit and listen just for some company.
“Yes, Misses?” She speaks in a heavy Irish accent. I remember asking Mother why she spoke like that when I was a bit younger, and she said it was because she isn’t sophisticated like we are.
I’m not quite sure that’s true.
“This wine is quite sour. Please take it away.”
Father’s lips thin ever-so-slightly. “Actually, I made the choice of wine for the evening, darling. I find it to be quite… exquisite.”
My brother and I exchange looks. We know that tone. It’s far too even to mean good news.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, dear,” Mother replies. “I believe it to be quite foul.”
“Perhaps you should taste it once again. Perhaps you haven’t given it enough of a chance.”
“Oh, dear. I think it’s a fairly good assessment that if I dislike it on the first taste, I will more than likely dislike it on the second taste.”
Father folds his hands in front of him, his eyebrows raising high on his forehead. “Please dear, try it again.”
“I’d rather not. Agatha,” she says, turning to the maid. “Please bring me something else.”
“That wine is very well aged,” Father interrupts, just as Agatha leans over to take the glass. Now she doesn’t know what to do, and flounders on the spot. It’s almost like watching a sport. Which way will she go? “I don’t see why one simple sip has spoiled your entire opinion of the wine.”
“Perhaps it is too aged. My mother raised me to drink only what I found enjoyable.” Mother’s voice is just a bit more strident than it was before.
“Oh, your mother?” Father starts to cut his meat again, but this time he’s stabbing at it furiously. “Your mother always seems to know her wine. She drinks so much of it after all.”
Clang! Mother’s silverware clatters against her plate. Her eyes grow large, and her lips draw into a thin, red line. I’m not quite sure why an argument about wine has gotten so far, but I’m old enough to know that it might not be wine they’re arguing about.
Agatha is frozen at the middle of the table.
There’s a hint of a smirk on my father’s face, just tugging slightly at the left side of his lips. This is very dangerous. I think I see the candles flickering.
“Well… my mother enjoys fine wine… as do I,” Her eyes are sparking in rage, her cheeks flushed. “And if I could find wine that suits my tastes, I would certainly drink it more often.”
“Of course, dear, if you wouldn’t allow one bad taste to ruin it for you, you would probably have a better chance to enjoy it.”
“If the wine is bad, it will still be bad. I’m certainly happy you enjoy it, but I do not, so I would rather decline.”
I’m pretty sure they’re not arguing over wine now.
“Well, I do enjoy it.”
“I suppose that explains why you drink it so quickly.”
Oh, now Mother has gained the upper hand. My brother is doing his very best not to laugh now. I’m not completely sure why, but I have a feeling this conversation has taken a very adult turn. The color drains from Father’s face. He’s speechless.
“Sometimes… I…” he fumbles over his words. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a crack in my father’s WASP resolve. “I… can’t help myself. I’m… very stressed at work la-lately, and I may drink my wine a bit more quickly than usual.”
Mother is unimpressed. “I am also stressed, darling. I always thought wine could be a bit of a stress reliever.”
A pregnant silence fills the room. No one is even breathing.
Father bristles, taking in a deep breath, raising his chest. “Well, dear, perhaps it’s not always my fault you don’t enjoy your wine. If you were a little more open minded, you might, dare I say it, have a bit more fun.”
Mother’s eyes darken substantially. “Darling, I’ve already tried to be open minded when it comes to wine. Your idea of good wine is just different than mine.”
“Well, Mrs. Hamilton shares my interests in wine. Perhaps I should just go enjoy it with her instead.”
My brother isn’t even close to chuckling this time.
“I’m finished eating, Agatha,” Mother states plainly, with a crooked, frighteningly bright smile. She picks up her wine glass and walks gracefully around the table. “You do that dear.”
She splashes the wine right in Father’s face, the crimson fluid turning the color of his shirt pink and dousing his hair out of its neat coif. She then quickly and confidently stomps out of the room, calling for Agatha to follow. There is another hideously long silence, my brother and I just staring at our father, waiting for anything to happen.
“How is your lamb?” he asks, oddly smooth.
Falling back in reality, my brother and I begin to eat and make overenthusiastic sounds of enjoyment from the delicious lamb that we could really care less about. Then, Father, still soaked through, picks up his knife and fork, and eats.
I don’t know if I’m ever going to drink wine. It seems like a very complicated beverage.
