Tonight at Easter dinner:
Me: I don't know why we have the pickles and olives, no one eats those.
Mom: That's not true! Grandpa does. The relish tray is a tradition.
Dad: Relish? That is not relish. Why do you call it relish?
Mom: It is, that's what it's called.
Me: She's right, it is.
Dad: Ashley, relishes are red and they grow in the ground.
Me: ...radishes? You're talking about radishes.
Dad: Relishes. Don't be ridiculous.
(Remembering that my mom had hoped we wouldn't argue. She was shaking her head behind him.)
Dad, you know how chopped up pickles on a hot dog is called relish?
He shook his head. I know he knows this. I saw a glimmer of recognition right then, like maybe relishes aren't red and don't grow in the ground--but he is not the sort to be wrong.
Dad: (pointing to the tray) That is not relishes. I know what a relish is.
Me: Okay. You're right.
But it's not a radish either, I added quietly under my breath.
And then I let it go.
Because if Jesus can rise from the dead, I can let my dad think he's right when he's wrong. Just this once.