Read Online Nobody Cries at Bingo by Dawn Dumont - Free Book Online Page B

meals, we always saw the bottom of the pan, cake dish, or pie tin. Sometimes Dad would even mop up remaining grease with a piece of bread.
    David and I polished our plates until we could see our own reflections in them. Then seeing hunger in the eyes staring back at us, we moved onto other people’s food if no one stopped us. Celeste was a picky eater and David and I had learned to hover over her.
    We didn’t understand why someone would turn down food so we teased Celeste for what we called “being snotty,” like when she dropped food on the floor and didn’t pick it up and eat it.
    â€œLook at her, thinks she’s too good to eat off the floor,” I said rolling my eyes at David. My gloating was lost on him, as he’d already be under the table clambering for the food.
    Wieners and beans. Pork chops and rice. Deer steaks and onions. Rabbit stew with dumplings. These were the dishes Mom knew best. With five kids, a full time job and an addiction to bingo, Mom didn’t have time to research new dishes or experiment with fancy foods like vegetables. However, a foray into Asian cuisine introduced her to canned mushrooms. She mixed them in with some rice and soy sauce and David and I devoured our plates in mere seconds.
    Celeste ate her way around the mushrooms and piled them high in the middle of her plate. Mom was feeling plucky that day and said something she had never said before: “If you don’t eat that, Celeste, then you’ll stay there until you do.” Celeste made her face into the shape of a pout and folded her arms. The game was on.
    Three hours later, Celeste still sat at the table. Every half hour Mom would walk in and glance at Celeste and then at the clock. Mom was more curious than angry. It rarely took this long to break a child.
    David and I perched on the chairs beside Celeste. “Just eat them already and come play.”
    Celeste shook her head. “I can’t. They’re gross.”
    â€œThey’re just mushrooms,” David said.
    Celeste looked at him in confusion. “Is that what they are?”
    â€œWhat did you think they were?”
    â€œPoo.”
    David and I both laughed. “Mom would never feed us poo!” I said. “Mom is not a crazy poo-cooker!”
    It turns out that I spoke too soon; two weeks later Mom brought home tripe. She spent all day boiling it and we spent all day making gagging noises whenever we walked into the kitchen.
    â€œWhat smells so gross?” I asked.
    â€œGet the hell out of here,” Mom replied.
    â€œIs that food?” I peeked a look at the grey thing bubbling on the stove.
    â€œIt’s tripe and it’s good for you,” she said and took a deep satisfied whiff. I could not have been more shocked if she had turned her head in a complete circle like an owl.
    â€œWhat’s tripe?” I asked.
    Mom ignored the question as she stirred the pot. I consulted Tabitha, my older sister and my expert on everything.
    â€œTripe is the guts of an animal,” she explained.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound too bad,” I replied. Pretty much every meat we ate was the guts of something.
    â€œIt’s where the shit comes from.”
    I left the room and went to relay the information to David and Celeste. When suppertime rolled around, we hid ourselves in the basement and snacked on a bag of chips we had stolen from the cupboard. Upstairs our parents ate the tripe with relish. Every once in a while my dad would call out, “If you guys don’t hurry, there’s not going to be any left!”
    Downstairs we shuddered.
    Later that evening, our uncles and aunts alerted to the tripe meal — probably by the smell — dropped in and filled their bowls with the crap. I guess tripe was their generation’s pizza pops.
    My favourite meal was something a lot less “fragrant”; meatloaf day was the best of times and the worst of times. I loved it and so did David,