Jar of Tomato Sauce

Julianna Concepcion | Staff Writer

My mother used to fight with her brother a lot. My Uncle T, who lived on our couch for a hot minute and was filled with conspiracy theories and a concerning devotion to God. He was (and still is) always arguing with everyone around him about everything—if he heard my older sister listening to One Direction or Drake, it was the music of the devil. If you showed any sign of not believing that there are lizard people living in the core of the earth and secretly governing the entire world, you were in for a very long lecture and an even longer screaming match.

Ironically, he was actually a pretty cool guy if you avoided any of these “triggering” topics. He would always look at the art I drew and would give me constructive criticism, which was much different from the usual “That’s so good!” He would always play all the hard Mario levels I couldn’t get past on my Wii and was overall a good man with bad cards dealt to him, along with a pill addiction and absolutely zero survival skills that most adults should have. I don’t even know if he ever learned how to boil a pot of rice.

After giving you some background on the type of man Uncle T is, let me paint you a picture: Imagine, my older sister and I on our living room couch watching TV while I looked over her shoulder as she scrolled through Twitter or Vine or something. We have a clear shot of our kitchen and dining area through a narrow doorway, my grandmother, mother, and Uncle T sitting at the table. My mom and uncle are in a heated conversation about some of his bullshit theories, and my grandmother is trying to calm them down.

My grandma’s words go ignored as the two of them begin to stand up, the bags from our grocery trip earlier that day ruffling and shifting as my mother slams her hands to the table. My sister and I are giggling, because watching them argue was, admittedly, hilarious. Stepping away from the table, they’re now screaming. My grandmother stands up, trying to grab her son's arm while shushing them as if they are ten and fourteen again.

I remember how fast my mom grabbed that jar of tomato sauce from one of the bags and cocked her arm back like a professional pitcher. My sister and I are now looking at each other with amusement (my sister is happier to see this than I am—she hated Uncle T). With one swift movement, my mom chucks the jar at her brother, thankfully missing and hitting the floor and the side of our tablecloth, the chunky red liquid hitting his legs. We’re both dying of laughter by this point, until we notice that our grandmother is sobbing.

My sister then turns to me and says, “Oh shit. It’s not funny anymore.” We were still giggling.