Cruella and the Peas
A story of a cruel stepmother, peas, and a hatred for both.
The nerve of her.
She left me with all this unresolved childhood trauma and now, twenty years later, she wants to meet for lunch.
Forget it! Most of all. . . forget her!
She put a stain on my childhood years. Any mention of that period of my life leaves a bad taste in my mouth, a taste like rotting fish topped with dried onions and goat cheese, or better yet, peas!
Peas are the perfect symbol of my repulsion toward my stepmother. Because as most kids do, I hated peas. And I hate my stepmother, ex-stepmother actually.
Notice the past tense of hate for peas and the present tense of hate for her. But when I was little, I wasn’t sure which was worse, peas or her. Now, of course, the answer is clear, but peas are still pretty awful.
I mean, who in the hell saw a pea growing out in the wild and said, “I must eat this. A true delicacy!” Probably some old white guy if I’m being honest. Aren’t all terrible decisions made by old white men? If I could, I would go back in time and murder that guy in cold blood because he deserves it.
Peas and my stepmother, otherwise known as Cruella. They share many qualities, except for the obsession with killing cute Dalmatian puppies. I don’t think she would do that, but can you safely say that you know anyone, I mean, truly know a person?
Before I tell you about the pea incident, I must admit that as a kid I abhorred all what I consider to be “American” vegetables: carrots, broccoli, green beans, and yes, peas. My palate at the age of nine was already refined and accustomed to the only suitable vegetables for any Italian family — zucchini, eggplant, artichoke, asparagus — these are vegetables.
Unfortunately since her arrival, my dad’s cooking had become dull and bland. With her every “too much salt”, “too much sauce”, or “too much. . .” — fill in the blank with any flavorful ingredient or spice — my dad adjusted his cooking to suit her.
And you can probably guess that pretty soon we were eating broccoli instead of zucchini, green beans instead of asparagus, and, you guessed it, peas.
What an unimaginative vegetable. . .
One Sunday night the four of us — Oh yeah, she had a son too — were seated at the dining room table. I had already eaten the protein and carbohydrates on my plate. Almost everything had been cleaned from my plate. . . except for the peas.
Just looking at them made me gag.
I pointed this out to my stepmother when she demanded I eat my vegetables. She scoffed at me and called me a liar. She never believed a word I said.
My father sat there in silence, not daring to look up from his plate. He never intervened on my behalf.
I tried again to explain to her that I couldn’t eat the peas. I even mimed the act of shoveling peas in mouth and the inevitable result of throwing up all over the table.
I would make sure to aim in her direction.
This did not deter her though. If I wanted to leave the table, I had to eat everything on my plate.
I gave her the most evil glare I could muster, grabbed three pieces of bread, shoved a forkful of peas into my mouth, and chased it with some bread. Glaring at her the whole time, I followed this procedure: peas, gag, bread, gag, milk, gag, until all the peas were gone from my plate.
I leaned back in my chair, crossed my arms, and glared some more.
“There’s no need for theatrics. Pretending to gag, completely unnecessary,” she said.
I stole a glance at my dad, who showed no signs of life, at the head of the table.
I was on my own in this fight. No matter what I said, I wouldn’t be believed, so I stuck to my best weapons: glaring and bad table manners.
Looking her right in the eye, I let out the biggest belch I could muster, did not say “excuse me”, and then proceeded to put my elbows on the table, a grin slowly spreading across my face.
I did not die from pea poisoning that night. It’s hard to say who won the battle, Cruella or me? But I will say I left that dinner table with a feeling of triumph and more ideas for future dinner sabotage.
So, coming back to the present, I can’t believe her nerve in inviting me to lunch. However, this could be a great opportunity to show her how terrible my table manners have become over the years.
I’ll make sure to order peas.
