It came down to an issue of salt and pepper. An issue so minute, really, but one that summed up their lives in three small words.
"Do you see any salt and pepper?" the woman asked. Her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips spoke of her displeasure. "I like salad with salt and pepper." She stabbed her fork into the lettuce leaves and moved the onions away to the side of the plate. Her tired eyes scanned the table, once, for the seasonings. Not finding them, she clucked her tongue while her fork resumed its assault on the salad.
As she started on her own meal, the woman's daughter stared in horror at her mother. What was her mother thinking? Could salt and pepper really make or break a salad? Did something so trivial, so petty, truly ruin the meal, as her mother's countenance would indicate? The daughter met the eyes of her sister, who mouthed, "What ever happened to eating what's put in front of you?" Good point, the daughter thought. Good point. She then glanced toward her father, seated at the head of the table. He had no concern about the lack of salt and pepper. In fact, he ate his salad with gusto because, salt and pepper or not, what did it matter to him? He was hungry, and was happy that something--anything really--was on his plate. As the man lifted the fork to his mouth and the mother huffed one more time, the daughter made a decision.
Without a word, she placed her napkin onto the tablecloth, scooted her chair back from the table, and stood up. She moved with confidence toward the alcove to the right of the restaurant's dining room, where she could see a stack of extra glasses and napkins. With luck, she'd find what she was looking for. The daughter peeked her head in, and one moment later (one moment!) her eyes spied them. On a wall shelf stood containers full of salt and pepper--lined up like a gaggle of fraternal twins. Enough seasoning to use on the mother's salads for the rest of her days and then some. The daughter plucked the shakers from the shelf, walked back to the table, and--saying nothing--placed them in front of her mother.
"Oh, thank you," the woman said, and proceeded to shake the pepper, then the salt, onto the salad in front of her.
"You're welcome," the daughter replied, as she sat back down in her chair. She placed her napkin onto her lap and picked up her own fork, hoping to find that the irritation within her would soon dissipate. She looked at her husband, who flashed a rueful smile her way, and then again at her mother, who happily ate the once-offensive salad.
Task accomplished, the daughter thought. Deed done. How hard was it to ask someone to find shakers of salt and pepper, or like she had just done, go get them yourself? But in that one moment (one moment!) the enormity of the situation hit the daughter like a sledgehammer. It was hard--no impossible--for the woman to do it. She'd lived her life full of fear and discontent, and it was easier to complain about the lack of salt and pepper than it was to find the courage to get some herself. In that way, the accountability still stood with the unknown perpetrator, the one who didn't place the shakers of seasoning on the table in the first place.
Accountability. It was a word the daughter was becoming more and more familiar with as the woman and man got older. It was a word she realized held so much more meaning than she ever thought. The daughter shook her head as she went back to enjoying the dinner. She vowed to be accountable for her own life, insofar as she could. And, those three small words--salt and pepper--would be the daily reminders.
"Do you see any salt and pepper?" the woman asked. Her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips spoke of her displeasure. "I like salad with salt and pepper." She stabbed her fork into the lettuce leaves and moved the onions away to the side of the plate. Her tired eyes scanned the table, once, for the seasonings. Not finding them, she clucked her tongue while her fork resumed its assault on the salad.
As she started on her own meal, the woman's daughter stared in horror at her mother. What was her mother thinking? Could salt and pepper really make or break a salad? Did something so trivial, so petty, truly ruin the meal, as her mother's countenance would indicate? The daughter met the eyes of her sister, who mouthed, "What ever happened to eating what's put in front of you?" Good point, the daughter thought. Good point. She then glanced toward her father, seated at the head of the table. He had no concern about the lack of salt and pepper. In fact, he ate his salad with gusto because, salt and pepper or not, what did it matter to him? He was hungry, and was happy that something--anything really--was on his plate. As the man lifted the fork to his mouth and the mother huffed one more time, the daughter made a decision.
Without a word, she placed her napkin onto the tablecloth, scooted her chair back from the table, and stood up. She moved with confidence toward the alcove to the right of the restaurant's dining room, where she could see a stack of extra glasses and napkins. With luck, she'd find what she was looking for. The daughter peeked her head in, and one moment later (one moment!) her eyes spied them. On a wall shelf stood containers full of salt and pepper--lined up like a gaggle of fraternal twins. Enough seasoning to use on the mother's salads for the rest of her days and then some. The daughter plucked the shakers from the shelf, walked back to the table, and--saying nothing--placed them in front of her mother.
"Oh, thank you," the woman said, and proceeded to shake the pepper, then the salt, onto the salad in front of her.
"You're welcome," the daughter replied, as she sat back down in her chair. She placed her napkin onto her lap and picked up her own fork, hoping to find that the irritation within her would soon dissipate. She looked at her husband, who flashed a rueful smile her way, and then again at her mother, who happily ate the once-offensive salad.
Task accomplished, the daughter thought. Deed done. How hard was it to ask someone to find shakers of salt and pepper, or like she had just done, go get them yourself? But in that one moment (one moment!) the enormity of the situation hit the daughter like a sledgehammer. It was hard--no impossible--for the woman to do it. She'd lived her life full of fear and discontent, and it was easier to complain about the lack of salt and pepper than it was to find the courage to get some herself. In that way, the accountability still stood with the unknown perpetrator, the one who didn't place the shakers of seasoning on the table in the first place.
Accountability. It was a word the daughter was becoming more and more familiar with as the woman and man got older. It was a word she realized held so much more meaning than she ever thought. The daughter shook her head as she went back to enjoying the dinner. She vowed to be accountable for her own life, insofar as she could. And, those three small words--salt and pepper--would be the daily reminders.
Comments
My word today is Acceptance - they kind of go hand in hand.