Gramps’ Great Gravy War
The Vignette Gazette Edition #127 | melee, puppet
The table is a glorious, starchy war zone. Every sibling is a willing combatant. It started with a single rogue pea and somehow ended with the younger brother wearing a wig of pasta. Mashed potatoes fly. Shrieks ricochet off the walls. It’s a familial melee. The elder sister is doubled over laughing, her clumsy hands only making things worse, while a glob of gravy sails in a perfect arc across the room and lands — splat — right on the cousin’s forehead.
It is pure, chaotic, completely unhinged familial joy.
In the middle of all this sits Gramps. A statue of calm in a sea of flying salad. He doesn’t duck. He doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, perfectly serene, taking a long, slow sip of red wine — a man watching his favourite comedy from the best seat in the house. Even the cats have joined in, launching off chairs after a stray noodle, the brown one’s tail puffed out like a victory flag.
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You can see the hands moving. You just can’t see the strings.
Because Gramps is the puppet master of the Friday roast, ten minutes ago, the house was clean and quiet. Then he leaned over to the elder brother and, with a deeply satisfied sip of wine, whispered: “First person to hit their sister with a crouton gets fifty bucks.” Then he turned to the rest of the kids, winked, and said, “Watch out for the bread rolls.”
He never wanted a quiet dinner. He wanted a show. And now he’s sitting back, enjoying his wine, and every second of the fifty-dollar performance he started with one perfectly placed lie.
AC
