The Night of the Boiled Okra Horror

The Night of the Boiled Okra Horror

Growing up, I avoided inviting friends home for dinner. Too embarrassing. But, that did not stop my mother. She would push, “Honey, why don’t you have your little friend join us for dinner?” She’d say it in front of them. And I’d die… because I knew how dinner would go. Because it always went the same. She’d serve steak, baked potatoes and a vegetable. And, the conversation… no matter how it went, always bit me in the ass.

“So, how’s your mother?” My mother would ask of the guest.

If this subject passed without a medical issue coming up, mother moved on.

“Your dad?”

And so on until she found an illness. Then the dinnertime conversation was set.

Oh, how my mother loved having our little friends over for dinner.

So, one day, when my friend, Julie, said her sister was pregnant, I thought I was safe. I could invite her over. Pregnancy being a happy subject about babies and other good things. Okay, yes morning sickness, umbilical cords and afterbirth offered topics, but my mother had pontificated at great length on those subjects before. Mother liked new topics, so she could show off her expansive medical knowledge. And, therefore, she was unlikely to revisit them.

So, like I said before, I thought I was safe.

Oh… how wrong I was.

Poor Julie.

Mother delved. “So how far along is your sister?”

Julie shifted and looked down at the table. “Well… maybe six months… or seven… she’s not sure.”

Mother’s eyebrows arched in delight. “Oh… She doesn’t know when she got pregnant?”

“Well… kind-of a surprise…” A giant, red blotch appeared at the base of Julie’s neck and spread upward.

“Oooohhhhh.” Mother dragged that ‘oh’ out until it sucked all the air out of the room.

To Julie’s credit, she added, “My sister isn’t married. But everyone is happy about the baby. ”

“Of course they are,” Mother said. “All children are welcome, even the inconvenient ones.”

Please. I prayed. Dear Lord, have mercy. Strike mother down. You don’t have to kill her. Just make her choke on the boiled okra that we were, that very night, being forced to eat. Then, Mother could go to the hospital and she’d be happy. She loved hospitals. And Julie would still be my friend and maybe, we wouldn’t ever have to eat slimy boiled okra again.

But no, God did- not come to my rescue. He did not save us.

“It is all part of nature’s plan. That’s why humans climax during sexual intercourse. So it will feel good, and people will have sex, and babies will be born. It’s the great perpetuating of the species.” Mother straightened her back, drawing herself up to a superior height.

The room swirled. I felt faint. Sweat gushed from my pits.

My older brother ducked and shoved mashed potatoes in his mouth. His friend, Harry, did the same.

Mother reached over and took a long, slow sip of water.

She thrived on moments like this.

Then, to my surprise, she cast a smirk at me. “Otherwise, no one would have children. Because, let’s face it, they’re such a bother.” She looked at my brother and grimaced, “all that crying and whining and fecal matter. Why babies are really disgusting if you think about it.”

She sighed.

Julie flashed me a did- your- mom- really- say- that- look.

I shrugged and touched my tongue to my nose, a move we did at school when our teacher, or someone else, did something bizarre.

Julie giggled. Just for a second, but mother heard.

Her eyes flashed with anger. Her body turned rigid. But, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Instead, she picked up her linen dinner napkin and, in a studied fashion, dabbed her mouth.

Oh God. Warning sirens whirled in my brain. That dabbing thing… she only did it when she was really pissed.

A little bit of vomit slid up the back of my throat.

Terrified, I swallowed it and watched my mother fold her napkin and carefully place it back in her lap.

No one spoke.

Minutes passed.

Mother cleared her throat.

“Julie, I’m so glad you joined us tonight… and shared with us your family’s little life drama.” Mother’s lips curled into a horrible grin. All her teeth showed. “Of course, I’ve talked to my children about sexual intercourse…”

Oh God… Oh God…

“But I’m afraid I’ve been lax about discussing birth control… and you have presented me with the prefect opportunity to do so.”

Julie’s mouth dropped open.

“I think it’s important for everyone to be clear about the medical side of the process.” She took a deep breath and glanced around the table, forcing eye contact with all. When Harry wouldn’t, it was, “Look up, Harry.”

“It is important to make sure the sperm and the egg do not touch.”

My Dad interrupted with a weak, “Honey, maybe this is not the best time…”

“Don’t be silly. This is the perfect time.” Frozen fury flashed from her eyes.

Dad withered and dabbed his forehead.

“Sperm… sperm… You do know what’s that like?” Mother interrogated.

The boys ducked.

I died. Couldn’t even look at Julie.

“Well, I’m sure you boys do… Right, Harry?”

I watch Harry wither.

Satisfied, Mother inhaled, then continued. “Girls, ejaculate is like… well… ”

She stumbled, apparently searching but unable to find a description. Then, a look of satisfaction swept her face.

“Like… blow your nose.” She pantomimed grabbing a tissue and blowing. Then she spread her hands as if to show the contents of the tissue. “That is what ejaculate is like.”

Satisfied, she picked up her fork, stabbed a boiled okra, dripping with slime, and put it in her mouth. Then, she began to chew.

Now, I can’t really speak for Julie since she never stepped foot into my house after that, but my mother’s description of sperm put me off of sex for the next decade or two… And off okra… Forever…

Which, in hindsight, might have been her goal all along.
(When I had kids, I tried to do a better job with the “Sex Talk.” It didn’t go so well. As a matter of fact, it was a complete disaster. Laugh with me. Here’s the link.
This story, “The Night of the Boiled Okra Nightmare,” is protected by copyright. You are free to share the link via social media, but this article may not be copy and pasted and/or republished and redistributed elsewhere without permission (this includes pasting entire story to Facebook, Pinterest, email, etc.). For questions or concerns, contact me at [email protected]


There are 7 comments for this article
  1. Kristine at 1:45 pm

    At least your mother has a ‘tell’ with the dabbing of the mouth. You can easily fake a vomit attack and bring your friend with you. My mother blurts things out before saying hello. My favourite was ‘are you on birth control’. Classy. Consider yourself lucky. She saved you on the Okra front too – there is that.

  2. Jim Poston at 8:07 pm

    Like I said you could not make this up. Thank god I couldn’t invite people over my dad was an Alcoholic never knew what shape he would come home in. Karen no wonder you are sweet and Crazy. Love you

  3. Sharon at 2:55 pm

    The flip side of that coin, your brothers friend and your friend may warn your other friends of ever going there again! Lol I would die! I feel for you! My parents were 40 when I was born and that kind of conversation was taboo at any time of day! Lol in their day such things weren’t discussed. And my mom was a nurse. She would answer questions that were asked in private, but never the one to bring it up thank God!

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