Playing Dice and Baking Eggplant, By Joe Ortiz

FEATURED COLUMNIST

Playing Dice and Baking Eggplant

Previous Episode: My father erupted like a volcano because I was being a “wiseguy” and I beat him at flipping quarters. As he stood over me, his hand on his belt, my mother came to my rescue by luring me into the kitchen to help her with the gravy. •••

As I sat there trembling, Dad settled back into his squat on the floor, silently took a few of the coins I had won from him and tossed them into his pile.

“No, Mom, you can do the sauce,” I stammered. “We’re still playing.”

Dad motioned to me to make my throw. I could feel my chest raging. Without thought, I made a defiant over-handed windup and flung the quarter against the wall. When my quarter knocked Dad’s coin away and bounced inside of his, he started to fume again.

“Ya beat me again, Joey!” Dad screamed. “Ya took all my money.”

“H-E-R-M-A-N!” my mother’s voice boomed out of the kitchen. She glared at us from the doorway. In one hand she held a plate of flour, and in the other a slice of eggplant ready to be dredged and fried. She dropped the slice in the flour, gave it a snap to dust off the excess, then shook her finger at Dad.

“Leave him alone,” she said. “He’s just a kid.”

“Nonny,” Dad said. “This Palooka’s takin’ all my change.”

“Herman, what kinda stuff is this ta be teachin’ a 6-year-old?”

When Mom turned back toward the stove, Dad hunkered down toward me and whispered, “Don’t pay any attention to ya mutha, Joey. She doesn’t know about games. She thinks we’re gamblin’. But we’re just playin’, huh, Joey?”

Then he said loudly toward the kitchen, “Leaners pay double, Joey.”

You could hear Mom growling above the sound of the bubbling olive oil. We heard a big splat and a loud sizzle as Mom dropped each slice into the skillet. I was so hungry I began to fantasize about dancing slices of eggplant. Would we ever eat?

“Ya gotta let me get revenge, Joey,” Dad said.

Dad started tugging at me again, and dragged me into the living room, away from Mom.

“Rememba’ when I told ya not to touch these.” Dad said, fingering the dice he pulled out of his pocket. Then mimicking Mom: “Mommy might get mad.”

“But you’re learning to play, mister. So, I can win back my money.”

“Herman,” Mom yelled, louder this time. She walked into the living room. With auburn hair and a creamy white complexion, she didn’t look anything like someone whose parents were from Southern Italy.

By Joe Ortiz

Mom and Dad Ortiz

“Parents” page 22

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