![\"\"](\"http:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/1188\/2021\/11\/KAUAI-FIGHTING-COCK-145x300.png\")
Kaua’i Fighting Cock by Lawrence Bridges<\/p><\/div>\r\n
<\/p>\r\n
I Don\u2019t Relish Shellfish<\/strong><\/h3>\r\nEmily Hessney Lynch
<\/strong><\/p>\r\n\u201cTraditions matter,\u201d my mother explains to me on the phone as I tell her about my husband\u2019s shellfish allergy two weeks before Thanksgiving.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cPlease, can\u2019t we just this once deviate from tradition?\u201d I ask. It is our first year of marriage, and my husband has never spent Thanksgiving with my side of the family before.<\/p>\r\n
My family has prepared the customary Thanksgiving squid every kind of way over the years: fried or grilled, fresh-caught by my father or frozen from the grocery store. If I had to pinpoint who in my family is the most ardent supporter of the squid tradition, I\u2019m not sure I could. My sister puts a calamari ring on each finger, then sucks them into her mouth one by one. I sometimes find my mom in the kitchen gnawing leftovers right out of the Tupperware in the glow of the refrigerator light, a bottle of bourbon by her side. My father loves to lick the juices off the serving platter. They are squid loyalists, and my request is a tough sell.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMom?\u201d I prod. She has been silent on the other end of the phone for too long.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cYes dear?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t we try turkey this year, like the Americans?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
She tut-tuts. \u201cEveryone loves seeing my squid feast photos. What will I post on Facebook? People will laugh at a turkey. They are ridiculous birds.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
My mother loves to compete with her friends, but I suspect the competition is one-sided. I doubt they would miss her squid pics. Everyone always cares about your shit less than you think.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cJust think about it, okay? We can bring our own entr\u00e9e if you want us to, but Kevin would feel more welcome if you at least try to be accommodating,\u201d I plead.<\/p>\r\n
She hmphs. \u201cI\u2019ll consider it.\u201d I hear a click, and the line goes dead. She didn\u2019t say goodbye.<\/p>\r\n
~<\/p>\r\n
On Thanksgiving, we show up on time. 4:30 p.m., arrival for cocktails and nibbles; 5:00 p.m., dinner on the table. It\u2019s an ambitious timeline they rarely meet. I sip my gin and tonic and chat with my grandmother as she wiggles the shell from her shrimp and plunks it in the ice-cold cocktail sauce. I keep an eye on my husband.<\/p>\r\n
Kevin maneuvers into the kitchen, carrying green beans and pie. He springs out of the way as the oven door crashes open. Smoke billows out.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThe fuck you doing?! Move! MOVE!\u201d my father screams. Kevin isn\u2019t in the way. We both wince.<\/p>\r\n
At the island, my mom grates the zest of a grapefruit into her homemade relish.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cWhere would you like these?\u201d my husband asks, cowering.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cSet them on the counter,\u201d my mother says without making eye contact.<\/p>\r\n
Kevin scurries to the snack table. He greets my younger sister Sarah, who is seeing how many slices of cheese she can stack on a cracker and fit in her mouth. (The answer is seven.) She opens wide, crunches, and washes the cracker dust down with a slug of beer. My grandma looks around and laughs to herself. Kevin\u2019s eyes are wide. He gulps.<\/p>\r\n
The family corgi trots in, and I scratch behind his ears, then toss him a hunk of cheddar.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMom, have you been giving him his eye drops? His eyes look extra cloudy.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cHe\u2019s just a dog, honey. He\u2019s fine. Don\u2019t worry about it.\u201d My mother rolls her eyes as she peers into the refrigerator.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cLet\u2019s go! LET\u2019S GO! Everything\u2019s almost ready!\u201d my dad bellows. In sock-footed terror, we pad into the dining room.<\/p>\r\n
A curving bonsai tree is at the center of the table, breathtakingly lovely amidst the chaos. My mother\u2019s tablescaping is as eye-catching and illogical as always. I saw the bonsai in her Facebook post this morning before we came over, but I had no idea what she\u2019d done for place cards. This year, she has opted for hermit crabs with painted shells, each one bearing a name.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cOh, good Lord, that\u2019s not where you\u2019re supposed to sit, Mary,\u201d she says to me. I start to point at the hermit crab in front of me that says \u201cMary\u201d in teal paint, then notice that the crabs are slowly crawling all over the table. No one\u2019s crab is at the correct spot anymore. Kevin and I exchange a look. I giggle into my fist, pretending it\u2019s a cough. The \u201cMary\u201d hermit crab stops abruptly, ducks inside her shell, and goes still. The other hermit crabs keep pacing.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cJesus Christ,\u201d my mom says, grabbing us one at a time by the shoulders and steering us to the proper seats. I get up almost immediately to refill my gin and tonic before we\u2019re trapped at the table.
My dad stomps into the dining room with two plates overflowing with poultry. \u201cLight meat! Dark meat!\u201d he grunts, pointing at one, then the other.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThey actually did a turkey! That\u2019s really sweet,\u201d I whisper to Kevin, clapping my hands in a brief moment of joy.<\/p>\r\n
We start loading up our plates. \u201cPass the stuffing,\u201d I say, craving my favorite dish. I stack my plate high with light meat, stuffing, those sweet potatoes with the peculiar marshmallow topping, our green bean dish, and a splash of my mom\u2019s relish, just enough so that she won\u2019t accuse me of not liking her prized recipe.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThanks for trying a turkey this year, Mr. and Mrs.\u2014\u201d my husband starts to say.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cShh! It\u2019s time to say grace,\u201d my mom says, shooting him a glare. \u201cJohn, do the honors.\u201d It is not a request.<\/p>\r\n
My father sucks gravy off his thumb and begins.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cOur heavenly father, we thank you so much for the blessings you have bestowed on us this year. We are grateful for our health, especially Grandma\u2019s, and that we got to celebrate her ninetieth birthday together last month. We are thankful that Mary actually chose to spend a holiday with us for once, instead of with her in-laws. And we hope that you will watch over Sarah in the new year and help her lose some weight. Anyways, bless this food and the hands that prepared it\u2014that\u2019s me!\u201d he smirks. \u201cAmen.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n\u201cAmen,\u201d we drone, picking up our forks in unison.<\/p>\r\n
I spare a glance at my husband. His mouth is hanging open. I pat his knee sweetly, hoping he can read my mind. It will all be over soon. Let\u2019s just get through this.<\/p>\r\n
He chews slowly on a big bite of stuffing, then forks in another. I take a long sip of my G&T. I have no appetite after that prayer.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMary, have you tried the relish? Turned out good this year, didn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
I swallow a spoonful and fake an appreciative, \u201cMmm! Mhmm!\u201d<\/p>\r\n
To my left, Kevin\u2019s face is red as a sunburn. His lips and cheeks look plumper than usual, and he keeps scratching behind his ears.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cLovey, you okay?\u201d I ask. He starts to wheeze and hack. I look him in the eye and realize it\u2019s happening. I\u2019ve never seen Kevin in anaphylactic shock before, but the doom in his eyes is contagious. He massages his flushed neck, gasping for air. He is mouthing something to us.<\/p>\r\n
Can\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\r\n
Everyone lifts forks to lips like nothing is wrong. Only Grandma pauses, her leathery hand tapping my wrist.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cIs he all right?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\r\n
I throw my chair back from the table. \u201cWhat have you done?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
My parents won\u2019t meet my eyes.<\/p>\r\n
I race into the kitchen and dig through the bottomless pit of my purse until I find Kevin\u2019s EpiPen. Then I fly into the dining room, crash to my knees by his side, and sink the EpiPen into his thigh. I have never had to do this before. People are usually careful when you mention a deadly food allergy.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThe stuffing is so good this year! What did you put in it?\u201d Sarah asks, unfazed.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cOoh, it\u2019s a calamari stuffing! New recipe. You just chop up the little rings and mix it all in with the bread. Cook it right in the bird.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cYum!\u201d<\/p>\r\n
Kevin\u2019s breathing seems to be stabilizing. I hold his hand.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cYou almost killed my husband!\u201d I thunder.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d says my mom. \u201cHe seems fine. You\u2019re overreacting.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
His skin is pink, and his chest heaves. He still can\u2019t speak.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cI thought it was one of those fake allergies. You know, like your lentil allergy, Mary.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMom, my lentil allergy is real!\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cIf that\u2019s what you think, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
I feel dizzy, and my stomach is sloshing. All I\u2019ve ingested today is cheese, gin, and a bite of her nasty relish. I lurch to a standing position, pulling Kevin up too. \u201cWe\u2019ll be leaving now,\u201d I say with as much ice as I can.<\/p>\r\n
Before I know what\u2019s happening, a clear, runny vomit erupts from me. It douses a hermit crab, causing its paint to run. I wipe a corner of my mouth with a festive napkin, moan, and stagger away.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cAnd we\u2019re taking the pie!\u201d Kevin manages, before his wheezing starts up again. Relief courses through me at the sound of his voice. As we stumble out of the house, I snatch the corgi. They don\u2019t deserve that dog. The three of us pile into the car, roll the windows down, and coast down the driveway. We\u2019ve barely made it down the block when the hysterical laughter hits. I pull over and let it take me, shaking and laughing until fat tears roll down my cheeks.<\/p>\r\n\r\n
<\/p>\r\n
Emily Hessney Lynch<\/strong> is a short story writer. She lives in Rochester with her husband and their three rescue dogs. Follow her at @EHL_writes.<\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"\u00a0 I Don\u2019t Relish Shellfish Emily Hessney Lynch \u201cTraditions matter,\u201d my mother explains to me on the phone as I tell her about my husband\u2019s shellfish allergy two weeks Continue Reading →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5162,"featured_media":0,"parent":1301,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5162"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2114"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2222,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114\/revisions\/2222"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1301"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2114"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
<\/strong><\/p>\r\n
\u201cTraditions matter,\u201d my mother explains to me on the phone as I tell her about my husband\u2019s shellfish allergy two weeks before Thanksgiving.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cPlease, can\u2019t we just this once deviate from tradition?\u201d I ask. It is our first year of marriage, and my husband has never spent Thanksgiving with my side of the family before.<\/p>\r\n
My family has prepared the customary Thanksgiving squid every kind of way over the years: fried or grilled, fresh-caught by my father or frozen from the grocery store. If I had to pinpoint who in my family is the most ardent supporter of the squid tradition, I\u2019m not sure I could. My sister puts a calamari ring on each finger, then sucks them into her mouth one by one. I sometimes find my mom in the kitchen gnawing leftovers right out of the Tupperware in the glow of the refrigerator light, a bottle of bourbon by her side. My father loves to lick the juices off the serving platter. They are squid loyalists, and my request is a tough sell.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMom?\u201d I prod. She has been silent on the other end of the phone for too long.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cYes dear?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cWhy don\u2019t we try turkey this year, like the Americans?\u201d<\/p>\r\n
She tut-tuts. \u201cEveryone loves seeing my squid feast photos. What will I post on Facebook? People will laugh at a turkey. They are ridiculous birds.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
My mother loves to compete with her friends, but I suspect the competition is one-sided. I doubt they would miss her squid pics. Everyone always cares about your shit less than you think.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cJust think about it, okay? We can bring our own entr\u00e9e if you want us to, but Kevin would feel more welcome if you at least try to be accommodating,\u201d I plead.<\/p>\r\n
She hmphs. \u201cI\u2019ll consider it.\u201d I hear a click, and the line goes dead. She didn\u2019t say goodbye.<\/p>\r\n
~<\/p>\r\n
On Thanksgiving, we show up on time. 4:30 p.m., arrival for cocktails and nibbles; 5:00 p.m., dinner on the table. It\u2019s an ambitious timeline they rarely meet. I sip my gin and tonic and chat with my grandmother as she wiggles the shell from her shrimp and plunks it in the ice-cold cocktail sauce. I keep an eye on my husband.<\/p>\r\n
Kevin maneuvers into the kitchen, carrying green beans and pie. He springs out of the way as the oven door crashes open. Smoke billows out.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThe fuck you doing?! Move! MOVE!\u201d my father screams. Kevin isn\u2019t in the way. We both wince.<\/p>\r\n
At the island, my mom grates the zest of a grapefruit into her homemade relish.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cWhere would you like these?\u201d my husband asks, cowering.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cSet them on the counter,\u201d my mother says without making eye contact.<\/p>\r\n
Kevin scurries to the snack table. He greets my younger sister Sarah, who is seeing how many slices of cheese she can stack on a cracker and fit in her mouth. (The answer is seven.) She opens wide, crunches, and washes the cracker dust down with a slug of beer. My grandma looks around and laughs to herself. Kevin\u2019s eyes are wide. He gulps.<\/p>\r\n
The family corgi trots in, and I scratch behind his ears, then toss him a hunk of cheddar.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cMom, have you been giving him his eye drops? His eyes look extra cloudy.\u201d<\/p>\r\n
\u201cHe\u2019s just a dog, honey. He\u2019s fine. Don\u2019t worry about it.\u201d My mother rolls her eyes as she peers into the refrigerator.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cLet\u2019s go! LET\u2019S GO! Everything\u2019s almost ready!\u201d my dad bellows. In sock-footed terror, we pad into the dining room.<\/p>\r\n
A curving bonsai tree is at the center of the table, breathtakingly lovely amidst the chaos. My mother\u2019s tablescaping is as eye-catching and illogical as always. I saw the bonsai in her Facebook post this morning before we came over, but I had no idea what she\u2019d done for place cards. This year, she has opted for hermit crabs with painted shells, each one bearing a name.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cOh, good Lord, that\u2019s not where you\u2019re supposed to sit, Mary,\u201d she says to me. I start to point at the hermit crab in front of me that says \u201cMary\u201d in teal paint, then notice that the crabs are slowly crawling all over the table. No one\u2019s crab is at the correct spot anymore. Kevin and I exchange a look. I giggle into my fist, pretending it\u2019s a cough. The \u201cMary\u201d hermit crab stops abruptly, ducks inside her shell, and goes still. The other hermit crabs keep pacing.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cJesus Christ,\u201d my mom says, grabbing us one at a time by the shoulders and steering us to the proper seats. I get up almost immediately to refill my gin and tonic before we\u2019re trapped at the table.
My dad stomps into the dining room with two plates overflowing with poultry. \u201cLight meat! Dark meat!\u201d he grunts, pointing at one, then the other.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThey actually did a turkey! That\u2019s really sweet,\u201d I whisper to Kevin, clapping my hands in a brief moment of joy.<\/p>\r\n
We start loading up our plates. \u201cPass the stuffing,\u201d I say, craving my favorite dish. I stack my plate high with light meat, stuffing, those sweet potatoes with the peculiar marshmallow topping, our green bean dish, and a splash of my mom\u2019s relish, just enough so that she won\u2019t accuse me of not liking her prized recipe.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cThanks for trying a turkey this year, Mr. and Mrs.\u2014\u201d my husband starts to say.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cShh! It\u2019s time to say grace,\u201d my mom says, shooting him a glare. \u201cJohn, do the honors.\u201d It is not a request.<\/p>\r\n
My father sucks gravy off his thumb and begins.<\/p>\r\n
\u201cOur heavenly father, we thank you so much for the blessings you have bestowed on us this year. We are grateful for our health, especially Grandma\u2019s, and that we got to celebrate her ninetieth birthday together last month. We are thankful that Mary actually chose to spend a holiday with us for once, instead of with her in-laws. And we hope that you will watch over Sarah in the new year and help her lose some weight. Anyways, bless this food and the hands that prepared it\u2014that\u2019s me!\u201d he smirks. \u201cAmen.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\r\n \u201cAmen,\u201d we drone, picking up our forks in unison.<\/p>\r\n I spare a glance at my husband. His mouth is hanging open. I pat his knee sweetly, hoping he can read my mind. It will all be over soon. Let\u2019s just get through this.<\/p>\r\n He chews slowly on a big bite of stuffing, then forks in another. I take a long sip of my G&T. I have no appetite after that prayer.<\/p>\r\n \u201cMary, have you tried the relish? Turned out good this year, didn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\r\n I swallow a spoonful and fake an appreciative, \u201cMmm! Mhmm!\u201d<\/p>\r\n To my left, Kevin\u2019s face is red as a sunburn. His lips and cheeks look plumper than usual, and he keeps scratching behind his ears.<\/p>\r\n \u201cLovey, you okay?\u201d I ask. He starts to wheeze and hack. I look him in the eye and realize it\u2019s happening. I\u2019ve never seen Kevin in anaphylactic shock before, but the doom in his eyes is contagious. He massages his flushed neck, gasping for air. He is mouthing something to us.<\/p>\r\n Can\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\r\n Everyone lifts forks to lips like nothing is wrong. Only Grandma pauses, her leathery hand tapping my wrist.<\/p>\r\n \u201cIs he all right?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\r\n I throw my chair back from the table. \u201cWhat have you done?\u201d<\/p>\r\n My parents won\u2019t meet my eyes.<\/p>\r\n I race into the kitchen and dig through the bottomless pit of my purse until I find Kevin\u2019s EpiPen. Then I fly into the dining room, crash to my knees by his side, and sink the EpiPen into his thigh. I have never had to do this before. People are usually careful when you mention a deadly food allergy.<\/p>\r\n \u201cThe stuffing is so good this year! What did you put in it?\u201d Sarah asks, unfazed.<\/p>\r\n \u201cOoh, it\u2019s a calamari stuffing! New recipe. You just chop up the little rings and mix it all in with the bread. Cook it right in the bird.\u201d<\/p>\r\n \u201cYum!\u201d<\/p>\r\n Kevin\u2019s breathing seems to be stabilizing. I hold his hand.<\/p>\r\n \u201cYou almost killed my husband!\u201d I thunder.<\/p>\r\n \u201cWhat?\u201d says my mom. \u201cHe seems fine. You\u2019re overreacting.\u201d<\/p>\r\n His skin is pink, and his chest heaves. He still can\u2019t speak.<\/p>\r\n \u201cI thought it was one of those fake allergies. You know, like your lentil allergy, Mary.\u201d<\/p>\r\n \u201cMom, my lentil allergy is real!\u201d<\/p>\r\n \u201cIf that\u2019s what you think, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\r\n I feel dizzy, and my stomach is sloshing. All I\u2019ve ingested today is cheese, gin, and a bite of her nasty relish. I lurch to a standing position, pulling Kevin up too. \u201cWe\u2019ll be leaving now,\u201d I say with as much ice as I can.<\/p>\r\n Before I know what\u2019s happening, a clear, runny vomit erupts from me. It douses a hermit crab, causing its paint to run. I wipe a corner of my mouth with a festive napkin, moan, and stagger away.<\/p>\r\n \u201cAnd we\u2019re taking the pie!\u201d Kevin manages, before his wheezing starts up again. Relief courses through me at the sound of his voice. As we stumble out of the house, I snatch the corgi. They don\u2019t deserve that dog. The three of us pile into the car, roll the windows down, and coast down the driveway. We\u2019ve barely made it down the block when the hysterical laughter hits. I pull over and let it take me, shaking and laughing until fat tears roll down my cheeks.<\/p>\r\n\r\n <\/p>\r\n Emily Hessney Lynch<\/strong> is a short story writer. She lives in Rochester with her husband and their three rescue dogs. Follow her at @EHL_writes.<\/p>\r\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u00a0 I Don\u2019t Relish Shellfish Emily Hessney Lynch \u201cTraditions matter,\u201d my mother explains to me on the phone as I tell her about my husband\u2019s shellfish allergy two weeks Continue Reading →<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5162,"featured_media":0,"parent":1301,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5162"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2114"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2222,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/2114\/revisions\/2222"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1301"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.ubalt.edu\/welter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2114"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}