Feeling a little some kinda way, and sometimes when I’m feeling this way, I like to spend more time in the kitchen. This morning I woke up craving maple sausage breakfast burritos.. the sweet with the savory, you know. I even sacrificed a wedge of my Prominitory Seahive cheese to the effort when it was belatedly discovered we were out of Tillamook cheddar. (If you know, you know.)
We were sitting down to our very late brunch, and I remembered making breakfast burritos for Jake (our more or less adopted kid, when he was all grown up). At the time, I didn’t bother to stock chile in the house for them; I know this is blasphemous to many folks, but Rick and I don’t necessarily have to have green chile on our breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. It’s one of those things that we are perfectly fine to enjoy when eating out.
Well. While Jake very much approved of my habit of mixing the cooked bacon in with the eggs, the better to ensure every bite had bacon in it, he was much disapproved of the lack of green chile. I gave him leave to rummage in the fridge and apply any condiment that took his fancy.
He went for the Dave’s Insanity Hot Sauce. A raised a brow and (feebly, because you know, sometimes you gotta give the kid a penny to stick in a light socket) warned him that it was some seriously kicky shit. Like, might wanna go easy on it.
“Nahhh,” Jake said, splashing a quarter of the bottle onto his breakfast. “I like it spicy.”
I’ll say this. He ate it with gusto, praising the cooking and drinking, well, enough fluids. The revenge came within a few hours, as his guts apparently were not as asbestos lined as his mouth.
Luckily, we have a guest bathroom that we were able to dedicate to his sole use/abuse. The lamentations were frequently and, dare I say, fiery? Rick and I mostly didn’t laugh directly to his face, and I quietly saw to it that there was green chile on hand when he next stayed over.
Rick and I were having today’s burritos and shaking our heads ruefully when I remembered cooking for his mom.
Rick’s mom was one of those people for whom any visible spice was immediately suspicious. A peanut butter pie on the Thanksgiving dessert table received several confused questions one year until I sweetly pointed out the sugar free lemon meringue I’d picked up just for her (diabetic).
Since my tolerance of endless, vague questions about what and how I cook dinner is pretty low, we tended to dine out whenever Rick’s mom was with us. Texas Roadhouse was always an acceptable venue, and one Mother’s Day after my mom and stepdad moved to town, we decided what the hell, let’s kill two birds with one stone and have the parents finally (Rick and I had been together for over a decade at this point) meet.
My late mother in law wasn’t an evil person; I truly believe that. She just had some seriously questionable ideas about what topics are appropriate for interrogation. That was her only method of carrying on a conversation- to ask endlessly pointless questions to which she would not bother to retain the answers to for more than seven to ten minutes. But, we figured, Roadhouse is a pretty loud venue, should be super crowded, maybe that’ll help cut down on the sheer volume of questions.
Oh, we were such optimists.
Question one, while we were still waiting to be seated- “How is your dad?”
Understand, like a lot of folks with divorced parentals, it was a tad bitter between my mom and dad. At that point, I hadn’t spoken to my father in several years (of which my mother in law had been informed on several occasions, but, you know, failed to retain the information), and suffice to say no one joining the lunch party that day was overly concerned with or interested in dad’s welfare. I smiled (or at least bared my teeth) and let her know we were still not in touch.
She seemed a tiny bit cowed, responding just with “Oh.” so I had hope that this was the one and only awkward question. Rick and I exchanged one of those meaningful glances in which an entire silent conversation takes place-
Me- What the absolute fuck, dude? What is her malfunction?
Rick, with an half shoulder shrug- It’s my mom, gonna be a bumpy ride
Me- Is it too late to run away screaming?
Rick, placing a hand on my back with brows slightly raised in alarm- Don’t you fucking dare leave me to deal with this on my own.
Rick, out loud- I think our table is ready..
We were seated, and I strongly considered ordering a very large beer, but no terrible topics were introduced, so I went for iced tea instead. It was just past noon, and I guess I was trying NOT to look like a degen… or experience a moment of in vino veritas that would create an actual problem.
Drinks arrive, talk is all about the recent relocation of my folks to our city, all’s going a bit better. I lean up against Rick and enjoy a moment of relief.
And then.
AND THEN.
Rick’s mom asked the question that will haunt me all my days because of the mental image it spawned.
To my stepdad- “So how long have you been in a wheelchair?”
Now, my stepdad was an amazingly chill guy. Very private, extremely capable, and realistically, had been dealing with clueless idiots and their rude questions about his disability for pretty much his whole fucking life. So he very nonchalantly said, “Since birth,” and went on buttering his roll.
Cue Ari’s Utterly Inappropriate Mental Theater- one birthing suite, circa 1968. Instead of the typical scenario, there is a long wheelchair ramp from the stirrups, and out comes Michigan J Newborn/my stepdad, top hat, cane, and tiny to scale wheelchair and my stepdad singing Hello my baby, Hello my honey, Hello my ragtime gal….
It was a long lunch after that. I really shoulda had the beer.
What’s the point here? Really isn’t one, just feeling some kinda way about the imminent holiday and thinking of the folk that aren’t here to share them anymore. Glad I have some memories that are funny…. now.
Curiouser and Curiouser 