Trying to find hot dogs on the afternoon of July 4th is not the easiest task. But when we're talking about my family, nothing is ever easy.
That Fourth of July marked the first ever Baxter-Holliday Family Picnic. My father's family and his new wife, Trisha's family were coming together to create some sort of step-family tradition. The picnic started in just a few hours and we hadn't even bought the typical Fourth of July picnic ingredients yet. So while we're walking through the aisles searching for one last pack of hot dogs to feed thirty people, I decide it's my job as the stubborn egotistical daughter to make things more complicated.
"Trish, you do realize no store is going to have any left, right?"
"You don't know that; have a little faith."
"I know everything."
"Cecilia, please-"
"Normal families are already done eating by now."
"Well, we aren't a normal family then, are we?" My stepmother said, while applying her sixteenth coat of lipstick and simultaneously waving a store clerk over with a flick of her wrist. Clad in a tight black dress and five inch heels, the newest addition to my family gets everything she wants. Despite my desperate attempts to show my dad the gold-digger she truly is, he didn't hesitate to marry her and buy the three of us a six bedroom mansion adjacent to some swanky country club in the suburbs. Can country clubs be "swanky?"
When my mom left when I was six, my dad had to learn to do a lot of things, like cook and teach his only daughter how to braid her hair. I grew up watching cooking shows as my dad tried to make us dinner. Pretty soon, I was taking cooking classes and helping my dad out. I fell in love with it and decided I wanted to be a chef. There's something so calming about following a recipe and making it my very own.
My mom, dad, and I lived in an apartment in New York for my entire life. Living in the city is like being a fish swimming in the opposite direction of his school. I love the hustle and bustle of a big city--but as the saying goes, in a New York minute I was swept out of my apartment and into a big house with an actual lawn and everything.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're sold out. There's nothing I can do." I watch my stepmother's Botox-injected face grimace.
"Well," she sighs, "What do you have?"
Luckily for the store clerk, he's saved from answering by my dad, returning from his business call in the car, who wraps his arms around Trish's waist.
"Oh good, you're back," she says, removing my dad's hands and walking over to the "Ethnic" aisle.
"You've got to be kidding me," I remark as I watch my stepmother grab packages and packages of taco shells and throw them into the cart. "Tacos on the Fourth of July? You're serious?"
"Oh come on, honey, lighten up! This is going to be so much fun," my dad says to make Trish smile, but I know him better than she ever will. I can hear the worry in his voice. He was eager to make a good impression on Trish's family by throwing an extravagant party in our new home, but tacos just weren't the way to do that.
We stare as Trish struts around the grocery store, oblivious to the gaze of the men around her, gathering all the taco ingredients she can find. After a few minutes, my dad leaves me with the real-life Barbie to take another business call.
"Darlin', come here--what else normally goes on tacos? You know I wouldn't be caught dead eating meat."
I roll my eyes and ignore her. I wouldn't be caught dead helping Trish solve her Mexican food problems.
Back at the house, my dad cleans up while I watch Trish struggle to cook the beef for the tacos. After five minutes, she has grease stains all over her Guess t-shirt. I try to ignore it but the kitchen seems to be pulling me in. I sigh, knowing my disinterested teenager image is about to be over.
"Here, let me help you," I say, and try my best to smile at her without throwing up. My dad clearly never mentioned to Trish that I can cook, but I act nonchalant as I step in front of her and take over.
I finish preparing the meal just as the doorbell rings; the first guests have arrived.
"Ok, honey, come downstairs, my parents are here! Just smile a lot--I'm sure they'll love you like I do!" Trish yells upstairs, as my dad comes running down the stairs buttoning his shirt, his dark hair still wet from his shower. I look over to see a tight smile plastered on Trish's face.
I could have easily picked Trish's parents from a lineup. The mother has the same platinum blonde hair and fake smile as Trish, and the father looks like he just got back from an outing at the country club with other rich businessmen.
While the other guests arrive, my father and I are forced to make small talk with Trish's parents.
"We'll have to get over to that country club and golf together sometime soon, y'hear?" John, Trish's father grunts.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a golfer," my dad looks nervous. John looks disappointed.
"Oh, what's that I smell?" Trish's mother, Marianne, wrinkles her nose in disgust.
"We're having tacos!"
"Tacos? On the Fourth of July?" Marianne says disgustedly.
I don't answer her; for once, I would rather be talking to Trish.
"Your parents don't seem to be too happy about us having tacos," I whisper to Trish.
She smiles--a real smile, and for once she looks pretty. Really pretty. "That's the point," she says, laughing. Trish takes my hand and leads me to the fridge where I find packages of hot dogs and hamburgers.
"Wait, what? When did you get those?"
"Oh, about a week ago. But it's always fun to upset the parents a little, isn't it? I say we make this a tradition."
I start laughing, and soon we are both on the hardwood floor of the kitchen wiping tears from our eyes.
I like Trish.
Prompt from: Writers Digest
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