Language Barriers
Peggy wasn’t big on cooking. Never had been, but it got even worse after Steve came back. In the first place, Steve and Angie were both better at it then she was. Which was good in the sense that it kept them from starving, bad because they liked so much to tease her lack of culinary skill. And her pronunciation.
You see, cooking often meant words like basil, tomato, pasta. Angie was particularly sensitive about the last one, always quick with a “You’re sayin it wrong, Peg! My grandmother is rollin in her grave right now!”
“And my Nana would do the same if I used your pronunciation. I’d prefer her to stay nice and still, thanks very much.”
At this point, Angie would demand Steve’s opinion, Steve would avoid giving it as long as possible, Angie would badger him with the persistence of a Hydra interrogator, and the inevitable reply would come.
“I always heard it Angie’s way. Not that yours is wrong, you say it however you want, Peggy.”
The eye roll from Angie came next. “Suck up. Majority rules, Peg, at least in the land of democracy. No more Brit speak this side of the pond.”
“I see. In that case, would you prefer I lose my accent as well? The one you both claim to be so fond of? I’m told my American voice is quite good.” By told, she meant that no one ever noticed the speech pattern was an act and started shooting at her.
Steve would glare at Angie then, a “Look what you’ve done” face, and Angie would shrink down a bit, drop the subject, and offer to pour Peggy a drink.