We toasted Severina because she'd opened a jar of chickpeas without calling for help. She'd been fighting the lid for three days. That deserved a party, some olives, and an end to her knocking on doors saying, “You try. I've loosened it for you.”
We gathered round a tree stump. Someone had wine, someone had water, we had coffee, and Severina had the open jar. She wouldn't put it down, even to wave. Everything was bloody lovely until Celedonio spotted the water glass.
“Stop! You can't toast with water. It's bad luck.”
Severina put the jar on the table and slowly turned to him.
“If I've got to open another bottle, we won't be toasting till February.”
The water isn't here to ruin your party
You can toast with water. Or coffee. Alcohol isn't required. A toast celebrates something together. It isn't a drinks inspection. Some people avoid water out of superstition or habit. That doesn't make water dangerous. We don't believe the universe checks everyone's glasses with a notebook, deciding whose day to ruin next.
Celedonio insisted there were rules. He'd tucked a napkin into his collar and was speaking with his chin stuck out. Basilisa raised her coffee cup. He looked as though he'd caught her toasting with a mop bucket.
“What's that?”
“Coffee, darling. You can tell because it smells of coffee and I'm drinking it.”
A cup works too. With a hot drink, simply raise it, say a few words and take a little sip once it won't burn you. You don't have to whack it against your neighbour's glass. We wanted to celebrate Severina, not pick bits of china out of the mashed potatoes.
If someone wants water, we don't interrogate them. Juice? Welcome aboard, juice. If they don't fancy drinking, they can join the moment without taking a sip. Nobody has to explain their drink to earn a place at our table. Anyone who won't stop asking why you're not drinking ends up talking to themselves while we eat their olives.
Celedonio takes charge
He asked us to start again. First, everyone had to raise their glasses together. Then we had to wait until he'd finished speaking. Then we had to look him in the eye. Our arms were going numb. A fly settled on his napkin and made itself comfortable. Even the fly was waiting for the speech to end.
Severina was hungry. She lifted her chickpea jar, told us she loved us to bits and said all those instructions could fuck right off. That got everyone's drink in the air. Sunlight caught the water. Basilisa smiled over her coffee. We felt that lovely warmth that has nothing to do with what you're drinking.
Celedonio finally softened. He picked up his glass, stood to do it properly and planted one foot in the bucket we'd used to cool the drinks. He landed on the moss. Unhurt, but with soaking trousers and some distinctly damp dignity.
“See? Water brings bad luck!”
Severina handed him a towel.
“The water was sitting still, you daft sod. You're the one who wasn't looking.”
We dried him off, made room and toasted again. This time Celedonio asked for coffee. And would someone kindly move that fucking bucket a very long way away?
