"Go slop the hog," your mother says.
She thrusts a bowl of potato peelings into your arms and goes back to her baking. Your mother is perpetually aggrieved, so humorless she can't even get a rise out of her yeast. Loaves dense as cannon shot are all that remains after her wrangling with the leavening, and your guts and those of your family pay the price—
"I said go!" she bellows, slamming her hands against the table. Flour lifts into the air and hangs about her face, like a cloud of gnats. "Saints alive, Bandochel, but you hang about."
You scurry towards the door, the scintillating inner monologue you had going vanishing as you flee.
Onward