Me: WHY A DOG??
Our food arrives before Beck responds, and it’s not favoritism. Empirically, the best looking thing on my plate is the Sweet Potato Mash.
I pick up my fork and am just about to spear my first buttery bite when Mom starts saying grace.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter, setting the fork down. Maybe a little too loudly. Because Mom flinches while she’s praying.
I have no problem with gratitude. Gratitude is a good thing. Feeling it is healthy. Expressing it is healthy. But if there really is a God, I doubt saying actual grace at mealtimes is high on his agenda. Our gratitude isn’t for him. Or her. Or them.
When I feel gratitude, it’s for me. It’s my heart rate that slows. My blood vessels that dilate. My immune system that enjoys a boost.
And right now, I’d feel genuine gratitude if I could just dive into this sweet potato mash.
Across the table, Margaret meets my eyes, and she’s smiling her trademark, sympathetic, Margaret-to-Harriet smile. One that’s meant to console me. A kind of wincing smile that, honestly, does the opposite of consoling.
My teeth clench.
Finally, Mom wraps it up, opens her eyes, and beams at all of us. “Bon appetit.”
I plunge my fork into the buttery heap of sweet potatoes and shut my eyes around the bliss of my first bite.
“Mmmmm. Oh God?—”
“Harriet—”
“Honey—”
Margaret giggles.
It’s only then that I open my eyes, realizing my head is thrown back like a woman in the throes of ecstasy.
I mean, I am in the throes of ecstasy. But over buttery sweet potato mash. Not… carnal pleasures.
Except my darting gaze confirms that the lunch crush at a popular restaurant is not the proper place for the kind of sounds I just made.
I duck my head, incinerating on the spot.
Grandma Eloise’s low voice vibrates with cold rage. “Perhaps we can make it through lunch without any more vulgarities?”
Mom’s fanning herself with a napkin. She must be having a hot flash. Margaret is silently laughing. I know because her shoulders are shaking, her eyes watering, but she’s not making any sound.
And Grandma Eloise looks like a stink bug just crawled into her mouth.
I nod and console myself with another bite. Only this time, I’m ready for the savory sweetness, the deep, earthy candy of the sweet potato mash.
Between bites, I check my phone.
Beck: The carefree happiness. Being loved just for one’s goofiness and loyalty. They way they can fall asleep in no time flat.
It takes me a second to pick up the thread of our conversation. Why Beck sometimes wants to be a dog.
I like his reasons. Especially the part about being loved just for one’s goofiness.
Me: GOOD CALL. BEING A ROCK IS STILL MY FIRST CHOICE, BUT A DOG IS A CLOSE SECOND. ALSO, YOUR SWEET POTATOES ARE THE BEST THINGS I’VE EVER HAD AT BON TEMPS.
Maybe one day I’ll tell him about my orgasmic reaction to them.
Or maybe not.
