I rolled my eyes and went to the garage, yelled out the question to dad, was snapped at to go pick the corn myself, and so I yelled again. “I’m only telling you what mum told me to tell you, asshole!” Stomping back down the stairs I glared at mum. “What exactly am I looking for with the corn?”
She paused, the potato held static under the stream. “I’ll go pick it.”
“Why?” I was taking offense. Surely it isn’t that hard to rip an ear off of a stalk of corn in the back garden.
“Which one are you meant to pick?” She asked.
I shrugged. “The one closest to me.”
My parents are trying this year to be hipsters... mum has now threatened to put salt into my tea after reading that sentence.
My parents are trying to reconnect with their roots.
“No, we’re not,” mum, yet again threatens. “We just want to grow something.”
Fresh corn, tomatoes (when they finally turn red), and accidentally potatoes are all on the menu in our house. Now if I can finally convince them to have some chickens we could have eggs and at the end, a roast dinner.
The down side to growing vegetables; the corn have dominated the garden bed, I can see them poking their heads above the deck when I sit at the dining table, the tomatoes are still green, and the last time I was weeding out grass and unidentified green things I was attacked by a green ant right on the tip of my toe. Asshole of an ant.
“Just wait until next year,” excitement gleamed in mum’s eyes. “We’ll have strawberries so we can have jams.”
“I prefer plum jam,” I pouted.
“So do I.”
“Can we put in a plum... what is it? A bush?”
Mum smiled. “A tree.”
“Oh, how about we put in a lemon tree.”
This time mum laughed. “It might stop your father from marking his territory down the back.”
“That is the idea of it.”
P.S. The corn popped off in my mouth like a gattling gun, juice squirting left and right, the potatoes in their skin was soft and perfect. I didn’t try the store bought sausages.