Zucchini Fritters

September 4th, after dinner

Dad came home from work alone tonight, carrying a canvas bag. My mother raised her eyebrows and asked “What do you have there?”

“Vegetables,” my Dad said. “Homegrown and healthy.”

My mother took a zucchini from the bag and swiped her finger across it. “Dirty. Where did you get it?”

“I bought it.”

“You spent good money on filthy vegetables?” She took the bag from him and put it in the garbage can. “I don’t eat dirt.”

Dad took the vegetables and put them in the sink. “You wash them first, like anything you buy.” He turned on the water as high as it would go and spoke above its torrential din. “But this way, all you’re washing off is dirt instead of God only knows what the government treats them with.”

“It’s not hygienic,” she yelled. “I won’t eat them and neither will Amanda.”

“I’ll eat them,” I spoke up. I’m not usually too fond of vegetables, but I liked the idea of eating something a person had grown and wondered if maybe the vegetables would taste different.

“You don’t even like vegetables,” my mother scolded, her voice ending too loud because my father had turned off the water.

“I might like these.”

“Well I won’t cook them.”

“I’ll cook them.” Dad winked at me and pulled out the grater.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked.

“Something my Dad did. I’d almost forgotten.” He sliced the zucchini in big chunks and put it into the grater. Thin segments came out the other end. I watched as he mixed the segments with flour, egg, and water. He placed oil in a pan and came to sit across from me at the table. Mom busied herself making a fruit salad from store-bought fruit, flash frozen for freshness.

“I didn’t get a chance to come back last night,” he said. “Did the milk help?”

I nodded. “Did you buy the vegetables from Mr. Tucker?”

“Who else?” Dad asked. “I’m glad you’re willing to try them.”

“Can I talk to him again sometime?” I asked in a whisper.

“Sometime,” Dad said quietly. “He’s got a boy about your age, I think.”

“He has kids?” I asked.

“Six of them,” Dad said. “But I don’t want to let you mother know that just yet.”
I nodded.

“I’d better check the oil,” Dad said. He stood up and flicked a small bit of batter into the oil. I heard it sizzle. I watched as he dropped spoonfuls of zucchini-laced batter into the oil and brought out golden puffs. When they were finished, he put them on the table between Mom’s fruit salad and the roasted chicken she’d bought from the deli.

I lifted a golden fritter to my mouth and took a bite. I fanned my mouth with my hand and swallowed. “Good, but hot.”

“Your granddad’s zucchini fritters were better,” Dad said. “But give me a chance. By the time we grow our own zucchini next year, mine will be even better.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother scowling.