Don't. I'll vomit.

I have fond memories of Sunday lunches when I was younger, a tween and teen. Dad would cook something either really good or really gross and we'd all eat together. I'd usually be wearing some awkward outfit or oversized pajamas to hide my uneven boobs (don't worry, they are better now, kinda). My hair would be cut into a triangle, frizzy, and I'd have horrific bangs. Claire would be wearing some mismatched outfit. She would have spent the morning playing with an animal or gluing paper together or solving engineering problems in her room.

The kitchen would be warm, the newspaper strewn on one end of the table. Dad would cook with a kitchen towel over one shoulder.

I remember one Sunday well. Dad had made quite a spread. We were eating fried chicken strips and green beans and potatoes and the whole deal. Only, Claire refused to eat the green beans. She insisted over and over that she didn't like them. Dad didn't like definitive statements. Saying you would not do something was pretty much asking to be made to do it. The lunch went on like this. Dad insisting, Claire insisting should would not. Finally, lunch was over and Claire had a mess of green beans on her plate. She was going to have to eat them.

Dad and I began cleaning kitchen while tiny little Claire sat alone at the table struggling to get the green beans down. Dad was washing dishes while I piled dirty ones on the counter, one eye on Claire.

And then, Claire began to quietly and neatly vomit onto her plate. Not explosive, I'm dying of the plague vomit--but quiet, roll out of your mouth, fuck you vomit. Dad looked over just after I did. He began shaking his head. I don't remember what happened next.

What I do remember is that Claire didn't have to eat green beans anymore. To this day, I have never seen a better "told you so". Congrats Claire, you remain the queen--of timely vomiting.