It was in October. My cousin was visiting from Germany with his girlfriend. They were staying at my parent’s house and we were all gathered in the living room after dinner.  All, except my father. He was in the kitchen cleaning up.  We were discussing, as travelers tend to do, the differences in cultures and lifestyles of various countries. My cousin’s girlfriend, who is from France originally, had never been to Texas before. The topic was food.

We had been drinking wine, and perhaps my mother and I had had a little more than my husband and my cousin and his girlfriend.  At least, that’s the way it seemed to me. Anyway, I think I had climbed onto my soapbox about the way we’ve tampered with food in the U.S.  GMOs, pesticides, additives, etc. etc.  Somehow, I got worked up about it and went into the gory reasons why my husband and I, and, consequently, my kids, became vegetarians. Somewhere in there, my mom started to get riled up at me about going on and on about it, and I vaguely remember her saying that we weren’t arguing about it. Although, it certainly seemed as if we were. My mother quipped something about my becoming a bit “uppity” (a sort of running joke between my parents and I, which I may, or may not, ever get to explaining…)

I stood up to get some more wine (yeah, great idea when I’ve already had too much…) and wandered into the kitchen where I loudly announced to my dad that I’d been pronounced “uppity”! Can you believe it? Uppity!!

“Am I being uppity?!” I asked my dad.

He was bent over the open dishwasher, loading it.  He didn’t bother to straighten up as he stopped, glanced into my eyes, held my gaze, and said:

“Uppity? No, not so much uppity. More like, Yappity”.



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