Onions and my strange relationship with them

They're not just for eating anymore...

Onions and my strange relationship with them

They’re not just for eating anymore...

Back in my very first newsletter, I mentioned that I once ate an onion like an apple.¹ You might’ve thought my claim was utter malarkey, but it is true. And I promise to tell the story. But first, I want to make a statement.

I have a strange relationship with onions.

That's me, smiling my permagrin on the swingset behind our home pictured on the right.

I blame my dad. He was famous for telling all of us kids (me, my brother, my friends, and my cousins) that onions would be hair on our chests. Ewww! No thanks.

Yet, I love to eat onions—sauteed, fried, grilled, pickled, or raw. And I like all kinds: white, yellow, green, red, and Walla Walla sweet. I haven’t found an onion I don’t like.

Well, that’s and not entirely true. See Debacle #2 below. That onion I could’ve gone without.

Peeling the layers back

When it comes to writing, onions are a great metaphor for character development. The whole “peel the layers” gives a character more depth and more chances for a reader to connect and root for the character.

Throughout the Forged Series, the first of which is due out this fall, the “layers” of Tessa are slowly peeled back. When we first meet her, she is the sweet, sheltered Contessa, content to live in her little bubble with her family. She doesn’t want to go to public high school; she wants everything to stay as it has always been.

But the universe has other plans. An accident shatters her perfect world, and she is forced to leave her rural home. As a layer of security is removed, she finds the strength to face her new situation and the courage to face those who bully her. As Tessa unravels her past, she must fight for her newfound friends and dwindling freedoms.

We see her empathy for others, her selflessness in protecting those who cannot protect themselves, and her willingness to fight for what is right despite the potential harm to herself.

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Shattered

In the remnants of the Pacific Northwest, 110 years from now, fourteen-year-old Tessa Wright's idyllic life in the Wilds is disrupted by the death of her family.

Haunted by mysterious memories and thrust into an urban society, Tessa struggles with grief while navigating high school among the privileged Elites and attempting to understand her true identity. She is drawn into the plot to uncover the truth behind a devastating terrorist attack and the sinister plans of the Ryker administration.

As Tessa unravels her past, she must fight for her newfound friends and dwindling freedoms. The lines between loyalty, love, and the cost of rebellion are blurred. Can she reclaim her true self before it's too late?

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Now, about eating an onion like an apple…

As a 3-year-old, I was fortunate to have an older friend who loved to hang out with me. Let’s call her … Jane.² Jane was a little more than a year older than me, so she was the bomb. Obviously. And she had the best ideas!

We once dressed ourselves up like clowns, complete with face paint, using her mother’s extensive collection of Avon lipsticks. After that, we were relegated to playing outside only.

Whatever.

I had a swingset in my backyard, so we liked to hang out there. It looked something like the photo below. The goal was to get both swings going at the same time—high enough that the legs lifted off the ground—so it felt like it was going to tip over. Super safe—as were most things in the 1970s—and likely why the playgrounds of today are fortresses with rubberized mats underneath and cemented into the Earth after being pile-driven ten feet deep.

photo from www.clickamericana.com/topics/activities-fun/metal-swing-sets

So, Jane and I were happily swinging one sunny Friday afternoon. We tried our best, but even with both of us swinging at the same time, we were too light to lift the legs off the ground. The swing set overlooked our massive garden, which was bursting with veggies, just begging to be harvested.

Once our legs were exhausted from pumping, Jane and I walked through the garden, perusing the selection of ripe produce. She pulled up a softball-sized globe, wiped off the outer skin, and ripped off the “tail” and hairy roots. We returned to our swings and proceeded to take bites of the big white onion, wiping the juice off our chins with the backs of our hands.³

My mother noticed us from the kitchen window, passing what she thought was an apple back and forth, sharing as good friends should.

Eventually, our playdate was over. Jane had to go home, and my mother called me in to get ready—it was Friday night, and that meant fish fry night at the Rhinelander Fireside Supper Club.

I walked into the house, and chaos ensued. Apparently, the onion Jane and I shared like an apple was a bit pugnant, and I, well, reeked to high heaven. My mother brushed my teeth a dozen or so times. She bathed me, spritzed me with perfume, and made me use mouthwash. Nothing worked. I still smelt sulfury. (And, apparently, that was not a pleasant smell.)

We made it to dinner. However, no one could tolerate sitting by me because I smelled bad. And that was saying a lot. Seriously, have you ever been to a Mid-Western supper club for a Friday night fish fry? Deep-fried fish have a very potent smell. And yet, the Ode de Onion was stronger.

I do not own this image, but I feel it is the perfect representation of me at the supper club. Source: www.peanuts.fandom.com/wiki/Pig-Pen

They put me at the end of a long table, and my family bunched around the other end, as far away from me as possible. From his seat at the far end, my grandpa watched me sitting all alone and felt bad. He moved down to sit with me so I didn’t have to eat by myself. (Maybe it was because I was his granddaughter, and I had him wrapped around my little finger. Maybe it was because he had a bad sniffer and couldn’t smell the onion sulfur oozing out of my skin and puffing out with each breath.)

What to reveal. What not to reveal.

When it comes to character development, sometimes, it is what is not revealed that makes a character more interesting. Do you want to know upfront who the villain is? Or do you want to discover the truth by having to sit at the end of the table with the stinky characters and find their truths despite the haze of their character flaws?

Yeah, I’d say Grandpa had the right idea. Sit with the stinky kid!

Onion Debacle #2

Do you remember young love? That feeling like he can do no wrong. That he is the perfect match—the ying to your yang. Spoiler alert: I’m still married to the guy despite this event.

For my 21st birthday, I brought home my then-boyfriend to meet my family. We’d been dating for about six months, and we’d already agreed that we’d found “the one” in each other, so I felt pretty good about introducing him to my family.

The first night, we all gathered for dinner at my parents’ house. My brother came over (he lived down the street in his own house—he was a “real” adult already). Sitting in our traditional seats at the family dinner table, I placed my boyfriend closer to my mother, which meant I was between my boyfriend and my father. The seating arrangement was my first mistake.

Dinner was lovely. I have no idea what we had, but it was probably bone-in chicken breasts cooked on the grill with sliced potatoes—it was my birthday weekend, and to this day, that is the meal I request whenever I visit my parents.

Also important to note that my birthday is at the beginning of June, so my father’s garden was once again bursting with veggies ready for harvest.

Be wary of raw green onions

I’m not sure how it happened. My father must have suggested that I’d look pretty silly with an onion up my nose. Hardy-har-har, Dad. Whatever.

Before I knew it, my father was telling my boyfriend to hold my arms down. And. He. Did.

And my father was joking that he would shove a raw green onion up my nose. And. He. Did.

I was trapped. At the time, I figured that my boyfriend must have been scared of my father because he did not hesitate.⁴

Adding insult to injury

To make matters worse, my brother was sitting across the table from me, laughing his head off. And my mother? Yeah, my mother made no effort to stop the shenanigans. I distinctly remember her laughing, too.

Thanks, Mom.

The moral of this story? To avoid getting an onion shoved up your nose, don’t sit between your father and your boyfriend.

See, I told you I have a strange relationship with onions.

Questions

1. What’s your favorite way(s) to eat onions? Or are you of the belief that onions are evil and are only good for warding off vampires? (Wait, that’s garlic… whatever. You know what I mean.)

2. Do you have any good childhood memories that you only remember because there is photographic proof or because the story is always told at family gatherings? Please share.

3. Who is your favorite literary character? Were their layers pulled off for you, or did you have to sit at the stinky end of the table to figure them out?

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Good Stuff

Here are some other writers I’ve enjoyed reading on Substack—Sci-fi, speculative fiction, and simply thought-provoking pieces. You might enjoy them too!

1. There's a Bathroom on the Right - Thanks to

   Andrew Smith
   , I’ll never be able to listen to CCR without thinking of this line! Also, I’m hoping to absorb the advice to “leave the doorway to the absurd ajar.“

2. What tomatoes and fruit trees taught me about progress -

   Robin Cangie (she/her)
   does it again with her short but poignant newsletters. Here’s hoping that I can focus a bit more on the fruit trees in my garden.

3. Freelance and Fishmaids - I hopped into Season 2 of this serial fiction from

   S.E. Reid
   and was thoroughly hooked. Check it out!

4. Poetry - Two important poems that you should read (and re-read) are I am not writing to you from

   Robin Taylor (he/him)
   and I Can’t Be A Rock Today from
   Jane Deegan
   . I’ll wait…

5. The Obituary Filter: A Morbid Litmus Test for Your Life -

   Neela 🌶️
   challenges us all to take a step back and take a hard look at ourselves. Are you living your best life? Would you be happy with what your obituary would say about your life? If not, change that now.

1. Hey,

Ayesha Falak

, I’m finally telling the story! Hope it lived up to the hype…

2. Her name was not Jane. But my mom and I couldn’t agree on what her name was, so I’m going with Jane, as in Jane Doe.

3. I was three. I may not remember the details very clearly, but based on the retelling of this story over the years, this is how I remember the afternoon progressing.

4. I have since learned that my boyfriend/hubby is always willing to help pull off a good joke. I am better prepared and know not to sit between him and my father. With age comes wisdom and all.