“That book bored me,” my mother said, as she handed me a bowl of peppers from the refrigerator.
I paused, trying to figure out if we were talking about the same book. “Fifty Shades of Grey. Really?”
“The writing was terrible. And there are only so many times -”
“Before getting hit by a riding crop repeatedly becomes hilarious?” I joked.
My mother turned her back to me and stood on her tip-toes to open the top cupboard. “Yes,” she replied, retrieving a parcel of tightly wrapped flatbread. She set it down on the island and started to unravel the packaging.
Impatient from hunger, I grabbed it from her. “I haven’t read it myself, but I can’t believe you thought it was boring,” I said, ripping off the layers of seemingly never ending plastic wrap. “It’s basically porn for bored suburban housewives.”
My mother folded her arms. “Well I’m not one. Your father and I -”
“Jesus, Ma, I really don’t want to talk about your sex life,” I snapped, finally freeing the flatbread.
“Jesus has nothing to do with it!” my father called from the living room.
My mother smirked as she tore off a piece of flatbread and dipped it into the hummus.
I yelled back, “Dad, are you really eavesdropping on a conversation about Fifty Shades of Grey?”
“Your mother said it was boring!”
“Let’s just go back to where I’m adopted,” I muttered, horrified about what the conversation between the two could have entailed. They did say it was boring after all.
“You’re not adopted!” my mother protested, “You were a product of love.”
“Will you stop!” I said, stabbing a pepper with a fork. The vinegar marinade splashed onto the granite countertop.
My mother glanced at the spill but didn’t move to clean it up. “We love you very much.”
I folded my piece of flatbread over the pepper, “I know, but that doesn’t mean you need to pull out the easel from the basement and illustrate ‘How You Were Made,’ again.”
“I wasn’t going to do that.”
My mother tore off another piece of flatbread. She handed it to me and pushed over a different bowl she had taken out of the fridge. “Try it with the pickled onions. And I promise I won’t bring out the easel.”
I moved my hand towards the bowl.
“Unless you want me to of course.”