“Let’s talk about the pot you three are growing.”

I stared at my mother and aunts across my blue sawhorse/ butcher block kitchen table. I had bought pasta and French bread for us from Giannelli’s in town and lit a bunch of vanilla-scented candles. In the center of the table I had my usual bouquet of roses, this time a mix of burgundy, red, white, yellow, and purple.

They’d come over in a rush, straight from the floral shop, kisses and hugs and “how-are-you”s, and hung up their hats. My mother had chosen a lime-green hat with white flowers for the day, rather demure for her. Aunt Iris was wearing a dark blue hat with tiny whales attached to the brim. Aunt Camellia was wearing a pink hat, tilted over one eye, with a pink net. We’d had dinner, then I’d made a pot of mint tea and served pink chiffon cookies.

They all froze for a moment after my statement. My mother and Aunt Camellia, sitting on the church pew, squirmed.

“More tea?” my mother said, holding my red teapot over my teacup. My teacup was full.

“A biscuit?” Aunt Camellia asked, holding up the plate of pink chiffon cookies, even though I already had three cookies on my plate. She likes to act British sometimes by calling cookies biscuits.

“Let’s not be unpleasant,” Aunt Iris said. “Or accusatory. Eat more salad. It helps with digestion and flatulence.”

“Mom. Aunt Camellia. Aunt Iris.” My white curtains with light yellow roses fluttered, as Sundance leaned against my leg. “You’re growing pot in the greenhouse.”

“The weather was so gorgeous today, a slight breeze, warm sun, not too warm,” my mother said.

“The way the sun is glinting off the water tonight looks like sparkles. Sparkles bring out one’s internal goodness, don’t you think?” Aunt Camellia said.

“Let’s have a conversation about when we all realized that we’re feminists,” Aunt Iris growled.

“We’re going to talk about this,” I said. Mars jumped up on a stack of books next to a wine barrel. The books fell down. He meowed in irritation, then took a leap onto the old library card catalogue. I sighed.

“Barnie’s selling two of his pigs,” my mother said.

“His pigs are delicious,” Aunt Camellia said. “Tender. Soft.”

“Should we buy the pigs?” my mother asked.

“Let’s consider the economics,” Aunt Iris said. “I’ll make up a financial spreadsheet. Buying pigs versus buying the pork and bacon at the grocery store.”

“I’m not going away,” I said. I picked up a pink chiffon cookie despite myself. I’d have one. Or two. Not more than four. Venus jumped on my lap and purred. “This isn’t funny. Pot is illegal, and you have a whole house full of it out there.”

“No,” my mother said, waving her hand dismissively. “Not a house full. It’s a greenhouse.”