We bought a heavy bag of shrimp curled into pink moons. At home we mixed pulpy horseradish with ketchup. The horseradish drilled holes in my head. We sat on the green carpet in front of the TV. Morticia held out her long thin arm to Gomez and he swooned. Wednesday spoke in dark riddles and Lurch drug himself into the living room with a wide eyed man selling vacuum cleaners. We pulled legs and tails from the cold shrimp, splitting the thin shell along the belly. We ate them with sweet cocktail sauce. Afterwards, we stood over the sink together and wiped down our hands with lemon slices. I set the table for dinner while she leaned over the stove, resting her weight on her left arm and stirring the big pot with a wooden spoon in her right hand. My aunts and uncles filed through the backdoor after work and the house tipped on its side with laughter. My mommom’s beer cracked open with a spray and she lit a cigarette at the kitchen table. I dipped leftover lemon slices in a bowl of sugar. I sucked on the slices and pulled my face into sour shapes. I was perfectly happy.