In the spirit of Lent, I think it appropriate to relay some stories from the family crypt. A trip down South on meatless Good Friday lays our scene. Three hungry boys, one angry Dad, one meek mother, and an older sister wishing she were elsewhere……
Growing up in a male dominant family, my brothers’ appetites dictated the majority of our family meals. As meat was the only thing that could satiate their endless appetites, it became our ritual mealtime staple. From pot roasts to grills, I felt like my family completely embodied the “ Beef is what’s for dinner” 1990s advertising campaign.
However, in the Season of Lent, meat became less prominent. Like all good and guilty Catholics, my family – much to my brothers’ chagrin – would abide by the Meatless Friday Ritual. Yet, as I moved further away from home immersing myself in collegiate life, I found myself eating less meat and thinking less of Lent.
During the spring of my Junior year, I agreed to join my family for Easter vacation. Charleston, South Carolina would be our Easter Basket for the weekend. The inevitable stop at “South of the Border” would allow my father and my brothers to stock up on ammunition – i.e. fireworks so that come Sunday, all of Folly Beach would be resurrected. Traveling on Friday – in particular, Good Friday, I suspected that my Mom had packed tuna sandwiches for lunch. As a college student, I was amenable to anything, as my taste buds had dwindled under the massive consumption of cheap booze and junk food.
After crossing into North Carolina, we pulled in for a pit stop at Subway. As my greedy brothers rallied for their stinky steak and cheeses and Italian heroes – no doubt something most meaty and foul - my mother turned around and said, “Now boys, it’s Good Friday, so you can only get tuna.” Rather than obliging, a parade of protests ensued, “ We hate tuna,” “Tuna stinks”.
As the protests grew louder, I noticed how quiet my father had been. Usually, he would rally behind my mother throwing lighting bolts like the king of gods, Zeus. Loving one’s father also meant fearing one’s father and my Dad successfully fit this bill. However, he had remained quiet leaving my mother to argue with her meat manic boys. Perhaps, Dad wanted a Steak and Cheese sandwich as well? Or maybe he, too, hated tuna? Who knew – the man never complained. Food was food to him – a simple fuel to get from point a to point be.
As my brothers’ protests grew louder allowing all of North Carolina to hear how much the Hannon boys hated tuna, I noticed my Dad clutching the wheel tightly. I knew the storm was coming. Suddenly, he flew around with a bright red face circling a mouth that screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO MEAT!” As he did this, he floored the Suburban into reverse, slammed into the Subway “Enter” sign and peeled out of the parking lot.
The whole car was silent as the echo of “NO MEAT!” rang in our meals. Meat – that prominent mealtime star – had fallen. A sacrifice had been made and a fight won, proving that appetites are no match for the faith that binds us come Lent. In a season of sacrifice, we are reminded that such passions must sometimes take a back seat and enjoy the low tide.