Without looking at the clock, Alice poured her second glass of chardonnay. Still too early to start dinner, it was far enough from lunch to allow coctails.
She watched the ripples on the surface of the pool and the undulating shadows they cast on the bottom. 'I should paint that,' she thought. She used to paint all of the time, her works displayed here, in this house, and in the homes of her children. She was good but honest enough with herself to admit that she was never going to be great. Now that she was retired and there was plenty of time to paint, she never did.
She considered cheese and crackers but that would mean getting up. No, she was content to just sit and enjoy the warm, sunny afternoon.
The buzzing of the phone startled her. "Hello."
"Hi, Mom. Got a minute?"
"Sure, what's up?"
"Nothing, really. I am at the store and they have some amazing looking artichokes. Do you still have that recipe for the steamed artichoke appetizer you used to make?"
"There's no recipe, honey. Just some lemon and Old Bay in the water and steam it."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"Don't I have to remove the outer leaves?"
"Yeah, just pull off all of the tough outer ones."
"How will I know when to stop?"
"Just keep pulling until it no longer reminds you of your father."
"Mother!"
Alice sipped the wine, cool and crisp. "Your father was a prick."
"Oh, Mom, I can't believe you're still bitter."
"And that is all you will ever need to know about preparing artichokes: pull the leaves until it's not like your father then steam it until it is not like your mother."
Clever word play, you genius (or was this authentic?)
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