"Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are."

-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin, The Physiology of Taste, 1825

The suggestion for the our scenes was to have Food as a central part of the proceedings. Food is such a fraught subject, and the other writers certainly didn't disappoint.

Here was my offering:

MORGAN, female – 20’s
TIM, male – 20’s
HENRY, male - 74

(Dining room of an upper middle class suburban home, probably on the North Shore, Summer, mid-day. The cherry wood dining table is laid with three settings for lunch – a bright yellow plate atop a light blue gingham place mat. Iced tea and bowls with mayonnaise-based salads are arranged here and there. All over the dark green walls are paintings and photos of a smiling woman in various stages of aging. One photo might be of her with a puppy, another might be of that same woman several years later. The color of the walls can barely be seen through the blanket of pictures. MORGAN and TIM, mid-twenties, sit across from each other at two of the table settings. They are dressed for warm weather. MORGAN looks strikingy similar to the woman in the pictures. They look at each other, holding hands across the table, MORGAN’s brow is furrowed.)

MORGAN
I said your dad was old.

TIM
He is old.

MORGAN
But I said it. Out loud.

TIM
Morgan, he’s 74 years old. Nothing you said came as any news.

MORGAN
Right. Maybe if I hadn’t just hollered out about how white his hair was. Sometimes you can cover that stuff up, but I really just…y’know, yelped it out.

TIM
Morgan…

MORGAN
I practically screamed it.

TIM
If you keep obsessing over it, you’ll say something else stupid.

MORGAN (Pulling her hand away)
Stupid?

TIM
I didn’t mean to say that.

MORGAN
I’ll say something else stupid.

TIM
I meant stupid to you, sweetie. He didn’t even think two seconds about it.

MORGAN
Right…

(She lets out a sigh and reaches over to take a spoonful of potato salad. TIM watches her as she dumps the white lump on her plate.)

TIM
What are you doing?

MORGAN
Getting some potato salad.

TIM
Morgan…

(He reaches over, grabs the spoon and scoops the potato salad back into the serving bowl.)

MORGAN
What’er you-

TIM
Were you raised in a barn? Jesus.

MORGAN
Tim-

TIM
Dad’s not even at the table yet. For Pete’s sake. Wipe your plate off.

(She lifts her napkin and hesitates)

MORGAN
Are you serious?

(A Beat. Before he can answer, a whistling approaches from the kitchen. HENRY, an imposing man with white Brylcreemed hair enters. He is wearing a little kitchen apron with daisies on it and he carries a plate full of sandwiches stacked into a pyramid.)

HENRY
Here we GO, kids…

MORGAN (Dropping her napkin back into her lap)
Thank you, Mr. Tripp.

HENRY
Not a problem…not a bit of a problem. You kids’er probably hungry, sitting out here waiting on an old-timer like me.

(He and TIM laugh. MORGAN does not. HENRY leans far over the table, reaching across MORGAN to set the sandwiches down.)

HENRY
You kids drive all the way up from Indiana, least I can do is whip up some of my bologna sandwiches (he pronounces it Buh-lon-uh).

TIM
Thanks, Dad. We really appreciate it.

(HENRY, sits at the head of the table, unties the apron and flings it down to the opposite end.)

HENRY
Sure, sure. (He spies the white residue on MORGAN’s plate) Couldn’t wait, could you?

(Pause. MORGAN looks at TIM)

MORGAN
I guess not. I was really, um…hungry. I mean, we drove so far.

HENRY
Uh-huh. We should say grace.

MORGAN
Yes. We should.

(HENRY holds out two enormous hands to and they all join in a circle. A beat. HENRY looks at MORGAN.)

HENRY
Maybe our guest can say grace.

MORGAN
Oh! I….um…..

(Her eyes plead with TIM)

TIM
Go ahead, sweetie.

MORGAN
Oh okay….(She bows her head, totally unprepared for this) Dear Lord….(long pause. Breathing) Thank you for this food….and we hope that we will….(Long pause) be healthy….and thank you for the company…..(Long pause) and please forgive-

HENRY
Amen!

TIM
Amen.

MORGAN
Oh…Amen.

HENRY
Prayer’s so long I thought the bologna (Buh-lon-uh) sandwiches sandwiches were gonna get cold!

(He and TIM laugh. HENRY reaches over and scoops out a heaping portion of the potato salad and glops it onto MORGAN’s plate.)

HENRY
Fill’er up.

MORGAN
Thanks.

(TIM takes a bologna sandwich from the plate and bites into it.)

TIM
I love a bologna (Buh-lon-uh) sandwich.

(Silence. HENRY reaches over to grab a sandwich. MORGAN looks at both men and then turns to look at the picture behind her. After a beat, she turns back.)

MORGAN
Those are beautiful pictures of your wife.

HENRY (Not looking at her, his face engaged in resolute chewing.)
S’not my wife.

MORGAN
Oh.

(She looks at TIM, he stares down at his plate, also chewing)

MORGAN
I thought- okay….

HENRY
I love a bologna (Buh-lon-uh) sandwich. Nothing says Summer to me like a bologna (Buh-lon-uh) sandwich.

TIM
Me neither.

(Pause.)

MORGAN
You mean, Bolo-NEE.

(TIM and HENRY stop chewing)

HENRY
What?

TIM
Dad-

HENRY
No, no….what did you say?

MORGAN
It’s bolo-nee. Not Bolo-nuh, the way you’ve been saying it.

HENRY
What do you mean it’s not Bolo-nuh. That’s how you spell it. There’s an A at the end.

MORGAN
I’ve heard it…um…well there’s no G sound either. You don’t pronounce the G.

HENRY
What G? What’s she talking about Timmy?

TIM
I don’t know Dad.

HENRY
There’s no G.

MORGAN
But. there is a G.

HENRY
Bolo-NEE, huh?

MORGAN
That’s right.

HENRY
Two different words.

MORGAN
What? What are you-

HENRY
Two. Different. Words.

MORGAN
They’re the same-

HENRY
No. NO. Bolo-NUH, is a delicious lunch meat that I am eating right now on a sandwich. Bolo-NEE, is a pack of lies. Bolo-NEE, is bullshit. Does it look like I’m eating a shit sandwich, is that what you’re saying?

(Pause)

MORGAN
No-

HENRY
No. NO…right. TWO. DIFFERENT. WORDS. And no G in there…ANYWHERE.

(A beat)

MORGAN
I-

HENRY
Come in here and insult my cooking….were you raised in a barn?

MORGAN
No, sir.

HENRY
No, SIR.

(A long silence. HENRY looks at her plate.)

HENRY
You haven’t touched your potato salad.

(MORGAN reaches over to take a fork, only to realize that there isn’t one.)

Blackout.