--Kate Wilhelm

"Over the last few years I have been watching Leslie What blossom from a nice little comic talent into a great big scary comic talent."

--Damon Knight

"As tasty a collection as you'll ever find, full of bright angels and dark nights, inner trolls and family dinners. All this and kugel, too! What, a triumph!"

--Karen Joy Fowler

The mother, the father, and the daughter sat down to dinner. The mother had prepared cold tongue, cooked and pickled in a vinegar garlic brine, then cut into two big pieces. One half had been further marinated in a ginger and sugar syrup, which provided a choice of sweet and sour.

There was no salad, no bread, no rice, only tongue, sliced against the grain, and arranged like two fans on a white platter. On the top was the sweet, on the bottom, sour. Each slice measured exactly 1/8th of an inch thick. The tongue was pink in the center, with a reddish brown tinge around the edge. Nobody really liked tongue, but it was cheap and plentiful, besides, traditional.

They were eating in the kitchen because the mother hoped to avoid the uncomfortable formal feeling of the night before. "Dinner, anyone?" asked the mother. She held up the platter in one hand and a large silver fork in the other. She looked all too matronly in the linen polka dot apron she had inherited from her mother.

Dressed like that, she could have starred in a biscuit ad, thought the daughter.

"Which side do you want?" the mother said. Her eyes fixed on the daughter.

This being a showdown between the two women, taste mattered less than symbolism. The daughter would have preferred boiled chicken, or Greek salad, maybe with biscuits, but the mother had not asked about her opinion before planning all their meals. The daughter answered. "Which do you want me to have?" Not that she planned to listen to her mother's advice. She was thirty, but worried she looked older, even though she wore a Hawaiian print sundress and clever sandals with leather toe loops. She was on vacation from her job as a travel agent; this far into the visit, she was wishing she had gone to Mazatlan, despite its being the rainy season there.

The mother was fifty and thought she looked younger. She had taken a week off work as a mediator in the juvenile justice system in order to spend time with her daughter. It was spring break: their busiest season, something she had mentioned in passing on more than one occasion, just not until after the daughter had scheduled the days off.

"I don't remember what you ate the last time you were here," the mother said. "If I could only remember, I might be able to tell you better."

"In that case, I'll take the sweet," said the daughter. She felt edgy enough already.

"You always want the sweet," her mother said. "Like it should all be so easy." She wished that she were better at hiding her disappointment.

The father cleared his throat. They had agreed not to mention the daughter's recent divorce; the father had withstood his temptation to mention having seen the ex-son-in-law at the School of Dentistry. "Smells delicious," he said, trying to break what he perceived as a developing pattern. His wife passed the plate to him and he took one slice of sweet, one slice of sour. He would have preferred dairy, or vegetable soup. Tongue was spongy, just air mixed with ritual. It was said to be nutritious, but who could tell?

The daughter took a bite of sweet tongue. It was her first taste of familiarity since coming home. "Are those new drapes?" she asked. Something about the kitchen looked different. Maybe it had been painted since the last time she had visited. She should say something nice about the color. "Peachy! Very peachy!" she settled on at last.

"What, you never noticed the drapes?" said her mother. "It's been two years!" She knew how to squint and purse her lips into a scowl at the same time without making it look silly. "That's what's wrong with you! You don't pay enough attention!"

They were each afraid that too soon they would run out of safe things to talk about.

"I don't suppose there's anything else to eat? " said the father.

"There's more tongue in the refrigerator," said the mother between bites.

"I should have guessed," the father answered. The mother always went crazy on tongue, not that he was counting. He knew better, yet couldn't stop himself from going one step further. Therefore, it was not stupidity, but stubbornness that made him say, "You want tomorrow, maybe I should cook?"

The mother picked up the platter and thrust it before his face. "Which do you prefer?" she asked with an air of certainty that let him know the matter was closed, that if he said another word, they would eat tongue tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. If he sighed, or even breathed audibly, he would eat tongue for the rest of his natural life -- beyond, if she could arrange it.

As much as he disliked tongue, the father was still hungry. Any anyway, the food didn't really matter; most important, they were together. Today had been a long day, and since he was not on vacation, he'd had no snacks. A man had to eat; everyone knew that. He stared at the platter as if he could will it to change form. When nothing happened, he said, "A little of each."

The mother shook her head. "Typical," she said. "Men. Can't make up their minds." The cold tongue made a sucking noise as she pulled it from the platter.

There was something disconcerting about eating food that made noises when moved or touched, but everyone was polite enough not to comment.

"Thank you," said the father. The tongue was so tender that he could have just used his fork; to please his wife, he picked up the knife.

The mother took a slice from the sour side for herself and set down the platter. "You look tired," she told the daughter. "Have you put on more weight?"

"It's difficult," the daughter said, forcing a smile, "not to eat too much when you have such good food here." Her mother always overfed her, then called her fat.

"You blame me for everything," her mother said between mouthfuls.

"She's not blaming, dear," said the father. "It was a compliment. You're a good cook."

"Have some more tongue," the mother ordered. Without waiting for the go-ahead, she dished them up more slices: sweet for the daughter, and one of each for her husband. She took another sour slice herself. This was the best way she knew to keep her sanity.

"Nobody makes tongue like you," the daughter said, wanting to say something nice, but not too nice.

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

The daughter bit her lip, which reminded her of what she was eating. She shuddered and tried not to think about it.

"It means nothing," her father said. He looked at his daughter like she was his puppy and he was praising her for going on the newspaper. "Tell her how good it is," he said in a singsong voice. He took a huge forkful, filling his mouth so that when he spoke, he looked like he was chewing on himself. "Hmmm!" he proclaimed, and in the next breath, mumbled, "Amazing how long this stuff keeps before it goes bad!" That night, he would dream of chopped liver.

Fortunately for everyone, the mother didn't hear his last crack. She thoughtfully chewed on her own tongue. "I heard from the postman that the neighbor's girl is pregnant and took off with some Cuban guy she met at the bar. Her mother is frantic, but they can't do anything because she's eighteen."

"Can you believe it?" said the father. He took a bite from the sour side. "Serves them right for being permissive!"

"That's the one good thing we can say about our daughter," said the mother. "At least, she never got pregnant or ran off with any Cubans."

"There are many good things about our girl," said the father, who had switched back to the sweet side. He was desperately trying to think up one or two good things to mention before too much time had passed. He was a successful orthodontist, and as he looked at his daughter's even smile, and her teeth, perfect from three years of braces, he blurted, "She has nice results. Beautiful results." He was proud of the work he had done. He could offer her no more than that. Not every father could say as much.

The daughter pushed her chair back from the table, stood, and reached for the platter. She got a sour piece. And some say there are no accidents.

"This is awful," said the daughter, rather pleased for finally speaking her mind.

Her mother looked crushed. "I'm sorry, dear," she said. She proffered her plate. "Do you want some of mine instead?"

"Too late," the daughter answered. "It's got your germs. I already feel sick to my stomach." She was being childish, and why not? They treated her like a child. She needed friends right now, not parents, yet here she was! Stuck with the two of them instead of people she could count on!

The father was eating sour. He said, "That's no way to talk to your mother!"

The mother said, "Please, everyone! Calm down. Let's just eat dinner in peace."

The sourness of the tongue made the daughter's lips pucker. She looked at the empty platter. "Did you say there was more in the refrigerator?" They had eaten a late lunch, but she felt as if she hadn't been fed in days.

Her father shoveled in another chunk of tongue. "Holy Schmoly, get up and get it yourself," he said.

Her mother's eyes shone with sadness. "Let me," she said. "You're on vacation."

"Some vacation," said the daughter. Vacation was getting away, not going back, something her mother would know nothing about. She made a show of stomping off to fetch them all more food. The knife was still sharp enough to cut through bone; both the mother and the father gritted their teeth to watch their daughter hold something this sharp, while in such an emotional state.

The daughter could not best her mother's carving, so to cover the inequity of her carving, she scooped up a spoonful of gelatinous sauce and tried to drizzle it across the center. The sauce dropped off the spoon in a big blob. The daughter gave up, and scraped it off, and pushed the sauce down the disposal. She deliberately mixed up all the pieces until she could no longer tell which was which.

"Ready," she said, and brought back the platter to the table.

"Some people can't do anything right," the mother said.

The daughter knew her mother's remarks had nothing to do with her carving skills. She covered her tongue with a thick layer of salt and pepper, her way of telling her mother that the dinner wasn't up to her taste.

The father meanwhile figured out how to tell which side was sour by the look of the spices, and refused to pass the tongue.

The daughter leapt to his side to snatch it away. She tried to grab a slice from her father's plate.

He was too busy stuffing his mouth to stop her, but managed to spear her shoulder with his fork. "Stay away from my food," he screamed.

"Ouch!" the daughter shrieked. Though her skin was raw, there was no blood.

"I can't believe you did that," said the mother.

"You can't believe who did what?" asked the daughter. "Are you talking to him or to me?" She did not expect an answer.

"It's not your place," said the father. "She made her bed, now she'll sleep alone in it."

The daughter looked to her mother and said, "Mom!" She would not cry in front of them.

"Let's speak of it no more," said the mother.

"Fine," said the daughter.

"Fine," said the father.

"Now eat," the mother said.

There was really nothing else for them to do.

The daughter picked through the tongue. It appeared her father had eaten all the sour. Beggars couldn't be choosers. The daughter took the biggest piece remaining and scarfed it down before the platter had gone all the way around. "Delicious," she said. With this much food in her mouth, her enunciation was disgraceful.

"I'm glad you like it," said her mother, who developed a fetching blush.

Despite everything, the daughter was pleased to see her mother happy.

There were three pieces left before dinner ended. The daughter could have eaten it all herself, but with the edge taken off her hunger, felt generous. She served sweet slices of tongue to her parents, and took the last for herself. She savored the pungent garlic taste and the sweet ginger bite, the tenderness of the flesh, the ritual and tradition of the meal.

Her parents were getting older and she was running out of time to make amends.

"Thank you," she said to her mother. "Thank you for letting me come home."

"You're welcome," her mother said. "You can stay as long as you want, you know."

"I know," said the daughter. "I know."

The mother smiled.

"I'll do the dishes," said the father.

Copyright © 2000 by Leslie What