Sardines

Some say the Christmas holidays are stressful because of busyness and having a tight budget. I have always been one to disagree with this notion. I think holidays—whether it is Christmas or Fourth of July—become what you make them. If one expects an over-commercialized, fretful holiday, that is what will be had. However, some events pop up at holidays that are completely unexpected and impossible to prepare for.

My sophomore year of college I started dating the man who would become my husband. During winter break, Titus flew me out to Florida to visit. Overall, the trip was a very enjoyable experience. As soon as he picked me up from the airport Titus took me swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, and we watched fireworks every night, courtesy of Disney World. We also went to Busch Gardens for free, thanks to their program that gives servicemen and their dependents free tickets every year. These events made for a wonderful post-Christmas and New Year’s extravaganza. The trip had been very low-key and laid back, so I was completely unprepared for what awaited me at dinner a few days before we left to come back to school. My blissfully happy holiday was about to get turned on its head.

A hint of background information is necessary at this point, or the whole ordeal will seem more unbelievable and insane than a mind could possibly wrap itself around. Titus grew up in a household of many strange customs. Most notably and relevant to this story: the eating habits. Titus’ mother—bless her heart—is no Paula Dean. She has food allergies (both real and imagined) and she has a very, shall we say, unique logic. Therefore, mealtime in the Lepic household is always an adventure. Now, I had heard stories from Titus about his dear mother’s cooking. I had been duly warned. But I had been having such a lovely time that I let my guard down, and my internal pessimistic cynic had been lulled into a deep and witless sleep.

The chain of unfortunate events began while I was exploring a sand dune with Titus one warm January afternoon. I was squatting down examining a panther track in the sand when Titus got a phone call from his mom. They talked for a long time. Rather, Titus listened to the phone for a long time. When he caught a break in the diatribe, he quickly interjected, “Hold on a just one second. Hey, Lydi, do you eat fish?” I stood up, pondered the clouds for a moment and answered, “Yeah, I like fried catfish.” Titus turned back to his phone and simply said “yes” into the receiver. He then stood there another two or three minutes, just listening, before he could get off the phone. This phone call should have been the first red flag. I thought nothing of it at the time, but I should have known better.

Later on I asked Titus what the whole “fish question” had been about. He told me his mom wanted to have us over for dinner since we had been out and about every other evening. She wanted to get to know me. I was slightly troubled by this. I knew her culinary reputation. This was the lady who considered tofu to be a comparable substitute for cheese on a pizza. I also remembered the first time I had met his mom. Titus had just come back from a deployment in Iraq; we had been emailing each other, and were to meet for the first time at the Bravo Company homecoming celebration. I had commuted with two guy friends to the base, and his mom greeted them warmly. Then she looked at me and said, “You must be that freshman girl who has been writing to him.”

Therefore, I felt I was being reasonable when I asked Titus if this meal would be normal. He apparently had missed the red flags also. Titus shrugged and said, “I don’t think she’ll try anything weird on you since she doesn’t know you all that well. Besides, it’s fish. How bad can it be?” The irony of his words would echo in my mind the rest of the night.

When we arrived to his parents’ home, I caught a whiff of something that smelled odd. The combination of spices, tomato sauce, and putrid fish was not what I was expecting. I should have seen this as red flag number two. I walked into the dining room. The table was set, and we were directed to sit down. I had to move because I accidentally chose the wrong spot, and I had mistakenly sat in his dad’s chair. I looked at the food spread out on the table: red potatoes that had been quartered and microwaved (no salt or seasonings), and frozen mixed veggies that had been microwaved (also salt-free and unseasoned). To my absolute horror, the last dish placed on the table explained the strange smell that had permeated the house: microwaved sardines in tomato sauce. “Egad!” I thought to myself in disbelief.

“I used that spice mix that you gave me on the fish.” Mrs. Lepic said as she set the dish on the table and sat down right next to me. I was absolutely appalled. The hostess gift I had given was being used against me. As I looked into the Pyrex dish the fish were lying in, I noticed the poor little creatures still had all their fins and heads. A dribble of tomato sauce ran down the side of a fish’s face as if it were weeping at its desecration. As the shock wore off, I became filled with dread. I was going to have to eat one of those poor little fish. I glanced to my right and the sense of dread deepened when I noticed Titus’ mom was oriented in her chair next to me in a way that allowed her to watch my every move as she ate her meal. I began a panicked mantra in my head as I tried to figure a way out of the situation: “Crap. Oh, crap. What to do…oh, crap.”

Titus was going to have to save me; that was the only thing I could think of. But how on earth could I communicate my SOS to him across the table? My heart sank and he, oblivious to my hour of need—and to the fact that the meal was something out of the TV show “Fear Factor”—speared two fish on his fork and splatted them onto his plate. He ate them both and went for seconds. So I took a deep breath and lifted my fork above the fish. I paused looking for the smallest one, and poked my fork into its little body. I felt the fork meet resistance as the pressure-cooked bones gave way. My stomach gave a lurch. I then proceeded to ignore the fish on my plate for as long as possible. Mrs. Lepic commented about how I hadn’t tried my fish yet. Dread swarmed inside me as I scooted the fish towards me on the plate. I tried to get a bite of fish that would have the least amount of bones. Taking a deep breath, I tried to tell myself that this bite of fish would make me win fifty thousand dollars. I put the fork in my mouth. The texture was awful, the taste was horrendous, and my stomach tried to refuse the fish at the door. By this time I had broken out in a cold sweat. I was fighting to swallow the bite of fish and keep it down. My gag reflex won over for a few seconds and I choked. But after striving mightily, I managed to get the bite down. I didn’t look up. I knew she was still watching me.

“Well, at least you tried it.” Mrs. Lepic said in a dejected voice. I helped myself to more semi-crunchy potatoes. I could not win this battle. By this time, Titus was helping himself to thirds. In no time, he had cleaned his plate and was taking his dishes to the sink. He rinsed his plate off, and was walking to the back door. My mind flew into a panic. I was screaming inside. I decided to throw manners and decorum to the wind. Abruptly I stood up and rushed with my dead fish and potatoes to the sink. In as chipper of a voice as I could manage, “Well, I wasn’t very hungry tonight I guess. Thanks for the dinner though!” As soon as I got safely out the door, I sat down next to Titus on a lawn chair out of sight of the dining room windows. I pulled my feet up and sat in a compact ball.

“Why? Why did she have to microwave the sardines? Titus, tell me why there was even sardines on the table!” Titus looked at me with a sympathetic smile. “Lydi, that was nothing. Tonight’s supper was pretty good for her cooking.”