The Australian Diversity Sausage

 

Kate’s right eye stung from the mixture of sweat and expensive make-up that was seeping into it as she worked. She no longer cared, and brushed perspiration, Lancôme foundation and mascara away with the back of her hand as she arranged the seemingly never-ending components of the grazing table.

When did it all get so hard? she wondered. It used to be the traditional family Easter barbecue.  She recalled her teenage years when her dad would just throw a few sausages on the barbie. They were always those cheap orange ones – a colour you’d only see now if Donald Trump was turned into a processed meat product and encased in intestines. Not a bad idea really, she mused. No-one knew what was in those things and no-one ever asked. Our parents’ generation just trusted that food companies wouldn’t sell us anything that could be bad for us. When did we start cottoning on? Were Chiko Rolls the first clue?

 Kate’s towering thirteen-year-old son, Jake, who was assisting in the set-up task by shuffling along listlessly behind her, occasionally retrieving and eating a breadstick, spoke up.

“I know we have to have all this cheese and stuff for the vegos, mum, but why can’t we have a barbecue as well? I’m still growing– I need meat.” His mother sighed, well aware of the cost of nourishing his nascent rugby body.

“Remember last year? The radical vegans were so outraged at the smoke from burned steak wafting towards them from the ‘grill of death’, that they insisted on showering and washing all their clothes before they went home.”

“Oh yeah,” Jake sniggered.

“I’ve had to install special software on my computer to manage the different demands anyway,” Kate continued. “Lactose free, nut-free, only free-range chicken, low FODMAP, keto, no soft cheese or cooked chicken, organic, seafood allergies and gluten-free. Trust me, you don’t want to be in the vicinity of a gluten intolerant who’s gone off-road in the dietary department. Oh, and cruelty-free carrots, although how you oppress a root vegetable is beyond me.

“It’s not that I mind. Really. We all have a right to eat food that we can digest physically and ethically. Even the cat has grain-free biscuits. If we all ate tofu instead of Maccas there’s be a lot more rainforest left in South America and a lot less cow fart in the air. It’s just that it makes catering so much more complex. I’ve had to buy in two EpiPens just in case I accidentally poison someone with an ill-considered quiche.”

Jake was flipping through the cards to go in front of each plate on the table. “I see what you mean. Heaven forbid anyone swaps the labels around for a joke.” Kate snatched the cards away from him.

“Don’t even think about it. You can keep your scaly mates away from it as well. I’ll order in some KFC for your lot.” Motherly nutritional concerns were suspended for a higher cause.

Jake brightened up - a rare sight in an adolescent boy. “Thanks Mum – and good luck with the Beansprout Munchers.”

“Trust me, the vegos and vegans are the least of my worries.” Kate returned to her task of cross-referencing her lengthy list with the wad of cards in her hand and the plates arranged on multiple, carefully segregated tables around the garden.

Thirty minutes later the first guests startled Kate by sneaking up behind her in the kitchen, having slipped in the back door.

“Hello gorgeous,” said Alan, the smaller of the two men, putting his arms around her waist from behind and resting his head on her shoulder. “How’s my favourite cousin this fine Easter Sunday? Such beautiful weather for a resurrection, don’t you think?”

“Alan, you’re not going to make any tasteless ‘rising from the dead’ jokes, are you?” admonished his partner, Will. “It’s just tacky and you know how it upsets some people.”

“Oh, they need to get a sense of humour,” countered Alan. “All this religious sensitivity is just so dull. I’m pretty sure a bloke who turns water into wine at parties would be up for a laugh. And seriously popular too.”

Kate turned around and kissed her cousin on the cheek.

“Will may have a point, Alan. I can deal with your abattoir-esque approach to sacred cows, but it’s an important time of the year for some, so I suggest you pull your head in and avoid starting a riot. I’ll never get the bloodstains out of the curtains.”

Will leaned his long slim frame over Kate’s 158cm of womanly curves and gave her a hug.

“Don’t worry Kitten, I know he has the sensitivity of a Sherman tank with a stuck accelerator. I’ll make sure he plays nicely with the other life-forms.”

Kate mused on what an apt term that was for her family – they were such a diverse bunch it was hard to imagine they shared so much as a single strand of DNA. It seemed entirely possible that something otherworldly had been slipped in there on the quiet.

“Alan, Will – good to see you both.” Kate’s husband Kevin walked into the kitchen. “Why don’t you two grab some drinks from one of the eskies out there and start to graze while we wait for the udder folk to arrive.”

“Hi Kevin -I see Dad jokes are still alive and well here, at least,” Alan responded with mock huffiness.

A short while later the Featherstone family Equinox Gathering was in full swing, the title changed to be inclusive of those of other beliefs, with hot cross buns in plentiful supply for traditionalists. Easter eggs were deemed acceptable because chocolate miraculously crosses all social divides.

Kevin sidled up to his wife while she was restocking a plate of spinach and ricotta sausage-less rolls, and nodded towards a group of three thirty-somethings who had the fresh-faced look of people yet to explore parenthood.

“Who’s that with Gavin and Anisha? I don’t think I’ve seen her before.”

“Oh, that’s Kristen. She lives with them now, in a thruple. Gavin was telling me all about their conversion to polyamory. Fascinating, but quite complex. Anisha has started seeing someone else as well, with everyone’s blessing of course.” Kevin’s mental gears were grinding so slowly, they were almost audible.

“So, if he, assuming it’s a he, eventually moves in with them, what does the thruple become? A herd?”

“I’m sure we’ll be informed on a ‘need to know’ basis. How’s Uncle, sorry Aunty Regina going? Are you keeping her glass topped up?”

“No need. For a former mechanical engineer, she’s quite the life and soul of the party. Everyone else is feeding her drinks to lubricate the storytelling. Obviously, her transition from Reg startled Aunty Belinda a couple of years ago, but she seems to have adjusted to it. The turning point was apparently the bonding experience of online shopping together. Regina certainly looks quite something in that sparkly, floaty number.”

“Yes –Camilla suits her. Funnily enough, Belinda told me that she’d always felt she was asexual anyway and just married because that was what you did, back in the day. All she really craved was connection and a more spiritual love without all the hoo-ha and wet patches. She’s perfectly content now.”

“So, Belinda’s on the rainbow alphabetic spectrum too then? You know, I’m incredibly impressed with this family,” Kevin mused. “Everyone just rolls with whoever anyone is and whatever it is that floats their boat. We’ve got an entire marina here now, right in our very own backyard.”

Kate issued her husband with a good-natured punch on the shoulder.

“Hey Kevin, if you want to charge my sister with domestic violence, I’ll stand witness for you,”

“Well, if it’s not Maximus Dickheadus,” laughed Kate, giving the new arrival, a man of around forty with a formidable girth, most of a hug, at least as far as she could reach. “We were just talking about how well our family adapts to changes in the social fabric of society.”

Max nodded. “Yes, Dad struggled a bit with it in the years before he passed away. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I walked in with Nkandu and said we were getting married. I only just stopped him from asking her if he’d get a herd of goats for a dowry.”

“Unlikely in Surry Hills,” Kate giggled. “Remember a couple of years ago when Cousin Georgia said that they would no longer be pigeon-holed as female and wanted to be addressed in gender-neutral terms?” giggled Kate. “Poor Dad had to write down everything he wanted to say to them before speaking, to make sure he didn’t stuff up. It certainly slowed down conversations.”

“Mum seemed to find it much easier. Is she here yet? I haven’t seen her for a while,” said Max.

“No, neither have I, although she seems to be the busy one since she retired last year. I’m looking forward to catching up with her. She said she’d be a bit late and was bringing a friend.”

“Probably one of her Bridge Club cronies who don’t have any family,” Max surmised.

At that moment, a statuesque woman with a startling crown of spiky silver hair dramatically razored at the back and sides, walked into the garden. Her short dress was the sort of yellow–green that cyclists would be well advised to wear on foggy mornings, it’s dropped short sleeves revealing a tanned and toned décolleté. As she hugged and chatted to a small knot of guests, she introduced the man at her side. By contrast, he wore his hair long, the dark brown curls brushing his shoulders and accessorised with a beard that was contrastingly precision-cut. He was stocky, fit-looking, and seemingly built mainly of muscle, to judge from shirt sleeves that were straining to contain a set of biceps like The Great Dividing Range.

The woman glanced at the startled group in the kitchen and strode inside, her companion following behind her.

“It looks like Country Road’s designers have been hitting the magic mushrooms,” muttered Will to Alan as she went past.

“Mum,” said Kate, looking stunned. “Your hair, it looks…well…radical! It’s certainly very different from your usual pageboy. And your dress…”

“Yes indeed, it’s wonderful to have the freedom to embrace my own style now I’ve retired.

 “Now, let me introduce you all. Étienne, this is my daughter Kate, her husband Kevin, and my son Maximillian. Étienne has recently arrived in Australia from Canada, and we hope to keep him here.” She laughed, put her arm around the man’s waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “We bonded over ice hockey and have been together nearly three months now.

 “Oh – I nearly forgot – can we put these somewhere?” She proffered two white helmets. “It was such a beautiful day, we decided to give our e-scooters a run. They are so much fun!”

The expressions on her family’s faces suggested that she might as well have asked for a place to park her flying saucer. After a silence so uncomfortable that it was almost itchy, Kevin took his chance to flee, grabbing the helmets with a “No problem, Soph,” and disappeared into a bedroom.

Max cast his mother a look of disapproval. “You do know, Mum, if you come off one of things at speed, you could well break a hip.”

Sophia smiled coquettishly. “E-scooters or ice hockey players?” Étienne stifled a snort of laughter.

Sophia read the room and instantly got the plot. “Et, I think I’m about to get a talk on the facts of life, it may be a good time for you to go and get a plate of food.” She watched his departing form with appreciation.

“Mum,” said Kate, grabbing her by the forearm. “What are you doing? He can’t be more than thirty-five. It looks so wrong. He’s probably just after your money. You’re sixty-eight and out riding an e-scooter in a short dress. It’s not age-appropriate! You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

 “Oh dear,” she replied with a dangerous smile. “I think I’ve just been age-shamed. Funny how that term hasn’t entered the vernacular yet, even though it’s no different to fat-shaming or slut-shaming.

“You do realise, don’t you, that ageing isn’t a choice, in just the same way that sexual orientation, gender or the ability to digest Tip Top sliced white isn’t a choice? Luckily though, by living this long, I’ve no won an All-Experiences Pass to the rest of my life. And guess what? There are no exclusion clauses.”

The implications of her words were sinking in, but the knee-jerk reaction to justify ageism, perhaps the final frontier of society’s ‘isms’, remained.

“We just worry about you and want you to be safe.”

“Thanks for your concern love, but I’m not yet a relic that needs to be wrapped in tissue and popped in a drawer in the National Museum. In fact, I’ve started a group of age-activists, and next week we’re marching on Canberra. Well, not marching per se, because that’s a bit hard on the knees. In fact, we’re e-scootering there.

“We demand new terminology. ‘The elderly’ is de-humanising and diminishing. No-one would say ‘the blacks’ or ‘the gays’ without getting enough backlash to take their head off. We’re POSSOMs; People Of Sixty, Seventy Or More. We’re putting the boom in Boomer and demand that the word ‘old’ is banned from being used as an insulting adjective. Calling someone an ‘old tart’ or ‘old fart’ will be deemed possomphobic hate speech!”

Max and Kate stared at their radicalised mother, uncertain of what to say next, when the sound of a heated exchange drifted in from the garden.

Sophia was first on the scene, belying any apparent knee issues. A slim man in his twenties was sitting on the ground by the vegan table, looking stunned and stemming a small flow of blood from his nose, while Étienne stood over him, rubbing the knuckles of his clenched right fist.

“For God’s sake, Et,” cried Sophia. “What’s going on?”

“This guy threatened me with a gun and then lunged in attack – I ‘ad to retaliate, Sophia.” Étienne glared at his floored opponent.

“The bloke’s a psychopath,” offered the victim. “I saw him strutting his biceps, and commented “sun’s out, guns out,” and then went to dip a celery stick in the houmous.” Glowering at Étienne, he added, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

The Canadian turned in confusion to Sophia. “In North America, if anyone talks about getting a gun out, you don’t hang around in the hope they’re just wielding a green vegetable.”

Kevin walked up. “Oh no – we’ve just had a case of linguistic diversity! Can someone please call a support group?”