Viva Brighton Issue #56 October 2017

COLUMN
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Amy Holtz
The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan
‘You want a burger, Aim?’
my dad asks, innocently.
Our family – and my
partner’s family, all the way
from Brighton – are seated
for dinner al fresco, on a
sunny Minnesota evening.
It seems like an innocuous
question, but I’m a
Brightonian now, sort of.
And this means I’m trying,
really hard, not to eat meat.
My dad doesn’t entirely
understand this; when
you grow up in the prairie
with food, on feet or on
stalks, as far as the eye can
see, the idea of not plucking whatever you like
from the land is somewhat alien. Ok, that’s an
understatement. It’s unfathomable – like a woman
over 40 starring in a movie. But this is the 56th
time I’ve been asked if I want some form of animal
flesh, and the spectre of my teenagerdom has
finally been called up to haunt the backyard and all
its artless inhabitants.
‘No, thanks,’ I mumble into my coleslaw.
‘Pork chop?’ My father-in-law waves another plate
at me.
‘Nah. Thanks though.’ I sink lower in my seat.
Sanctimony is a slow-dripping insanity, boring into
the space behind my eyeballs. Just focus on the
potato salad, I tell myself. And ooh, look – what
lovely watermelon. It won’t stop people chucking
meat at me, as they’re wont to do in Minnesota,
but it’ll save me chucking it at them.
‘The burgers are really good,’ my dad says, to
no one in particular. He does this because he has
a short memory and he’s still not really sure if I
don’t want a burger. Because
it’s ridiculous, obviously,
not to.
‘Dad.’ I huff. The reflexive
rolling of my eyes is
strangely satisfying, like
slipping on and settling
into an old, worn sweater. ‘I
haven’t eaten a burger since,
like, 2005.’
Honestly. It sometimes feels
like adulthood is just longer
stretches between, and more
concentrated tamping down
of, adolescent behaviour.
But something so mercurial
must always ooze out
somewhere. Perhaps we never really grow up that
much; after all, here I am, once again refusing a
lovingly-made dinner based on half-formed, highly
emotional principles. I once boycotted turkey
at Thanksgiving after finding one confused and
incapacitated on the road on my way home from
school. The turkey was not as confused as the
cops, who I called, tearfully, to come pick him up.
To be fair, the Willmar cops probably didn’t have
anything else to do on a Thursday at 3pm.
‘Ok then.’ His eyes scan the table. I brace myself;
there’s quite a few things on the table. So many
things he can offer me next.
‘Salmon?’
The adult side of my brain gives a slap to the
teenaged side – to remind it to enjoy this moment,
where people still care about you and offer you
food. But I can’t help but dream of having a
conversation about seitan that isn’t an invitation to
swap favourite bible verses.
A huge sigh. ‘Fiiiiiine.’
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