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Alex vs. the Brocolli Ball
My dad set the dish down on the kitchen table. It was shaking violently as if having a seizure, and vibrating its way slowly across the table.
“Mom didn’t cook this, did she?” asked my younger brother Mark, with a nervous look.
“No. I told you, mom’s at a meeting tonight. I’m cooking. Got a problem with that?” responded Dad, impatiently.
Uh, no, but I may have one in a few minutes if I try to eat that.” responded Mark. “What the heck is it, anyway?” The dish was nearly at the edge of the table. It looked as if it was trying to throw itself to its death like some kind of deranged lemming. My dad reached over and pushed it back towards the center.
“It’s broccoli casserole,” he said. Mark and I exchanged frightened glances. Our youngest brother Alex, however, remained remarkably unconcerned. The dish continued to oscillate.
“I think you’re supposed to kill it first,” Alex spoke finally. “Here, I’ll go get a broom and finish it off.” The dish was emitting a high pitched squealing noise. Alex started to get up.
“Sit down, Alex,” commanded Dad.
“Well, somebody needs to put it out of its misery,” replied Alex.
“It’s not alive,” said Dad. “It’s just a little, um, hot. Yeah, that’s it.”
“Yeah, Alex, you dolt. Broccoli ain’t alive,” ridiculed Mark.
“I think this one is,” said Alex.
Then let’s eat it before it kills us all,” I interjected. “I want to get this over with.”
“Quiet,” said Dad. “It’s going to be great.” With that, he lifted the lid.
Whatever was inside was bubbling like a tar pit, and emitting a horrible, sickening odor. I turned my head away. My mind reeled back to my father’s last attempt at cooking, a putrid rutabaga pie, the remnants of which still reside in my colon, growing and feeding off my innards like a tapeworm. My stomach churned in agony.
The lid was off. I opened one eye and peeked at Dad’s latest concoction of evil. It was a greenish mash - a lumpy frothy foamy substance, the color of cut grass and the texture of clay. It looked a lot like green spackle.
“Gee, Dad,” said Alex, “I’d really love to eat your dinner, but it looks like somebody beat me to it.”
“Hush up, boy. There’s nothing wrong with my dinner. It’s just a little overcooked, that’s all.”
“Overcooked? It looks like it’s been cremated!”
“Yeah, really, Dad. I’m not a cow. I don’t eat cud,” contributed Mark.
“Well, if you want something else, you can have a little taste of my belt buckle!” threatened Dad, tugging at his belt, angry at our relentless mockery.
“Please don’t take off your pants,” I said. “I have little enough appetite as it is. We’ll eat it.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Alex.
Dad nodded and began dishing the slime onto our plates.
“Not too much, now. I’ve got school tomorrow.” said Mark as a wriggling glop was pressed onto his plate. My dad glared at him.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“Mostly broccoli,” Dad replied, “though there’s also some cabbage, a little asparagus-”
“A garnishing of sewage, some chinchilla meat, eye of newt, toe of frog…” added Alex.
“Shut up, you,” ordered Dad. “Eat up.”
Mark and I glanced at our plates, then at each other. Then, simultaneously, we each took a forkful, raised it slowly to our mouths, and took a bite. I had my nose plugged to shut out the taste, but my mind was filled with the images of cow manure, garbage dumps, and high school bathrooms. My head was swimming as I braced my stomach for impact, and swallowed.
I slowly opened my eyes. I was still alive, and remarkably, not blind. I looked over at Mark, and sighed with relief. I set about the task of figuring out how I was going to get the rest down.
Alex hadn’t touched his glowing sludge at all. Instead, he just sat there with a dopey grin, watching us. After a moment, he grew bored with our suffering and looked elsewhere for amusement. He snatched a slice of bread and commenced to play with it. Then, he got an idea. He grabbed a wad of casserole in his hand and proceeded to roll it into a ball, like a baby playing with play dough. Once he had roughly a racquetball sized blob, he wrapped the bread around it like a blanket. He then rolled the new mass into an even bigger sphere, until he had something that resembled a beige, squishy orange. He rolled it across the table like a billiard ball. Alex set up two goals with three cups and a salt shaker and began a soccer match with his broccoli ball and two salad forks. At one point he got a little excited and stabbed the mass with one of the forks, and started banging it against the table like a gavel. My dad ignored all of this, but I could tell he wasn’t pleased.
After a while, Mark and I had managed to choke down or stick to the underside of the table enough of the broccoli-cud to merit our being excused. We got up to leave, and Alex rose also.
My dad just looked at him. “Exactly where do you think you’re going?”
Alex looked surprised. “Um, outside. Why?”
“You’ve still got food left.”
“Where?”
“There,” said Dad, gesturing at the broccoli ball.
“Oh, that. That’s not food. It’s compost.”
“Looks like food to me. And you’re going to eat it.”
Alex laughed. Then he stopped. “You can’t be serious.”
“You’re damn right I’m serious. And you’re not leaving until every bite is gone.” Dad wasn’t smiling.
Alex gulped, and glanced at his plate, and at the giant, putrid Gobstopper he had created. Then he looked up at Mark and me, helplessly, his eyes watering. We merely shrugged, and walked away. I turned back only to see Alex raise the brownish death-ball to his lips, and take a bite out of it as you would an apple. Then I ran up the stairs.
Some hours later, Mark and I heard a retching noise, and then a toilet flushed. The dreaded broccoli ball was never heard from again.
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Email me! paul@paulspond.com
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