A Race

Slices of watermelon gleam in the sun.

A picnic table, red cups and open bags of potato chips.

A pot of rice, covered with tin foil.

The smell of charcoal burning

Cricket bats and tennis balls lay under an umbrella

A warm breeze pulls through and disturbs leaves on trees

Barbeque sauce on my finger tips and a burger without a bun

Styrofoam plates peak out of a black garbage bag wrapped around a tree

A family of 24 kids and 18 adults are we

A small army

Ready for a challenge…a challenge we always conquer

Girls first.

A rope is put down

Fingertips to the ground

An old man on a megaphone counts down

Go!

9 girls in a row – 3 of us to one family

The rest, just known as the enemy

My running shoes slide on the grass

Sister #1 is behind me, sister #2 in front

I, the youngest of the three, hold up the middle

My throat is dry. The August sun heats the top of my head

My oversized t-shirt catches the breeze and floats off my back like a parachute

Run. That's all I need to do.

As we approach, the vision becomes clearer.

We three reach the rickety picnic table where those infamous Styrofoam plates sit in a row.

A sight I did not want to see.

A sight we three dread.

Is it purple? Or blue? Maybe it was red. The debate still goes on today almost 20 years later.

It wobbled pathetically under the scorching sun. We saw it dissolve before our eyes.

“Eat! Eat!” said the old man with a megaphone. The feedback scraped the inside of our skulls as he spoke, rather, screamed into the device.

We stare each other down. Like mental synergy we all knew what the other was thinking

How?

The competition is catching up. No time to think, only time to win!

We each grab a plate and in synchrony we slurp.

The gelatin tasted cloyingly sweet, the essence of some fruit flavor giggled in our mouths.

A gag reflex we all tried to fight as we forced the warm wobbly dessert down.

With a final glug we all flung our plates and made the mass exodus out of the eating arena and down the track.

But as I sprinted, I turned to my left to see Sister #2, puffy cheeked and eyes watering

She looked at me and pointed, apparently I had the same expression

Sister #1 was bringing up the rear. Her face mimicked ours.

An end in sight we see the official rope holders lift up the finish line.

My throat closed, my eyes winced. The front of my t-shirt was stuck to my chest as I pushed those last few feet.

My sneakers skid through the grass again as I pushed across the finish just a split second after my sister.

The last one of us just moments behind me.

As if we all shared the same emotions, and sensations; like we could read each other’s thoughts, we did the unexpected.

Our lungs deflated, our stomachs hurled. In a whip lash motion we jerked our heads forward and released the contents of our cheeks

Neither of us could contain the awful gelatin concoction any longer. 

We held our stomachs as we moaned. The price we pay for coming in top 3.

Our siblings point and laugh, while our other cousins come crowding around us like an emergency rescue crew, attending to our gut-wrenching Jell-O experience.

Some handed us water, some came with towels, and others came with food (why, I don’t know). We see our parents in the distance clapping and cheering

The enemy family, defeated.

The old man in a frumpy hat appears again with his short circuited megaphone

“Come winners, collect your prize!”

Handed to us were t-shirts as we climbed up on the picnic bench.

Big smiles we had, not because of the victory alone, but out of relief.

Never to be forgotten, a foot race in the sun

A tainted memory of what was a notorious win

We took one for the team, we three under the blazing sun

We will never look at gelatin the same away again.

Xo,

The Girl who Likes to Cook