I Learned to Drink by Doing the Dishes

POETRY

by Gunilla T. Kester

First came the herring plates with attached
onion pieces and black peppercorn, a yellow
dash of the mustard sauce accompanied
by the traditional akvavit in little cone shaped
glasses, three untouched. I lined them up
along the window, one for my mom and two
for my aunts, except the aunt on my father’s
side was just pretending because she carried
a hidden bottle in her handbag. They had sung
the usual drinking song about taking the whole
and if you can’t take the whole, you can’t have
the half. I lifted the first glass and toasted the moon
as it sped away from the singing at the table.

One of my father’s brothers had a singing voice
but was drowned out by the other two.

Next came the cold seafood, the eel and the shrimp.
I scraped the peel into the trash can knowing
I’d have to take it out later and even in the milky
Nordic night, I’d be afraid. Too bad we can’t save
the peel of the eel and make jewelry out of it; 
it is so pretty. The shrimp was always served peel
on and with a white port in small round glasses.
I noticed their dainty shape like plums and sniffed
the contents suspiciously. Many had only had half
of each glass. I poured them all into a regular mug
and sipped from it contentedly toasting the moon
glinting white in the wide sky. Gleaming in the knee-
high grass, I saw the fox crouching, eyes glaring.

The warm seafood, baked pike in cream sauce
served with chilled chardonnay, now room
temperature, still my favorite. I noticed the three
glasses with lipstick around the rim were as empty
as if licked clean, which they might have been. Not
a drop for the young dishwasher. If they at least
paid me I said to the moon and the fox. I have
only gotten paid once and it involved my naked
legs and a lot of transparent plastic and a camera.
Maybe those photos hang in a gallery now? Horrible!
Not again. Not for a million crowns. The moon looked
like a huge lens up there over the woodshed. I bowed
and drank the second akvavit. Or if at least they tipped.

Why, I wondered, should the sink drink
better than the not-yet-teenage daughter?

I considered stealing my father’s black hat to go begging
around the table but knew they’d think a tip undemocratic, 
not Socialist Ethics at all. The moon had flown the coop
so there out came the bats. I saluted them with akvavit
number three and dug into the stack of dishes from the steak
in brown sauce with mashed potatoes and salad
making a sticky mess and I was running out of hot water.
To give the small water heater a chance I sat down
with an almost full glass of a good burgundy twirling
it around and around looking at the huge stack of knives
forks spoons growing on the counter. My last customers.
Looking forward too, to the brandy served with coffee 
and my mother’s meringue cake with whipped cream.