Yum Yum

And visitors

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and that meant doing the usual things like calling my father, now 92, having lunch with him, and asking him not to eat dog treats.

He didn’t eat them at lunch. He and his helper Geoffrey were at our place on the Cape the previous day, and he called me to ask what there was to eat. This is interesting for two reasons: they were at the Cape, but I was not, and he was chewing when he asked me the question.

“I’m not sure,” I replied, “have you looked in the fridge?”

“Well, then we’d have to know what to do with it.”

This is valid. While both men are perfectly intelligent, there’s a good chance they’d starve to death if snowed in at a deli if the sandwich items were double-wrapped, the cases closed, and the proprietors had gone home, leaving Dad and Geoffrey behind and locked in.

“I can hear you chewing. What are you eating right now?”

“I don’t know. Some sort of bison snack.”

“…Dad? Are you eating dog treats?”

“How would I know?”

“For starters, they’d probably be marked ‘dog treats.’”

“Well, I don’t see anything.”

“Send me a picture please.”

I’m fairly certain my father’s lived to be 92 because at this point he’s made his body utterly inhospitable to all bacteria. He’s been practicing it for decades.

When I was a kid, my mother would occasionally make roast beef. She’d let the roast rest on the counter before carving, and my father would sneak into the kitchen, rip some bread off of the loaf to be served, and dip it into the roasting juices.

One night after dinner my sister and I heard our mother calling us in a stage whisper.

“Girls, come here now!”

We went running to the kitchen door to find her watching my father dipping his bread into the roasting pan. Only it was by the sink, and she’d already put some hot water and dish soap in it to soak.

He never noticed.

Once when my mother was in the hospital, Dad’s mother Joan dropped off some of her inedible beef stew. We mutinied and demanded pizza, crying that Alpo dog food would be better than what she’d brought. He said he doubted that.

So we opened a can of Alpo Beef Stew under the watchful eyes of our dog Sam, and heated a bowl of that and our grandmother’s stew. Placing them side by side, we told him what lay before him. He tried them both, declared them “both good,” but thought that one of them needed salt.

The one that needed salt was his mother’s.

For Father’s Day lunch we had open-faced sandwiches of smoked salmon, red onion, and capers, and also of marinated peaches on whipped ricotta and mint, followed by a cherry and pistachio tart.

It wasn’t bison treats, but he seemed to like it OK.

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Morning Teaistisms

I’ve had a couple of visitors here, both theoretically in a family way (How do you know she’s pregnant? Well, we saw her in the back corner with Cletus…). One of them may end up staying with me, but for now, they’re foster critters. While they may not have much book learnin’, they sure know their way around a bed and a couch, but are not so much about being left on their own. This has meant no sleep, getting anything done, or personal space.

On the left, AOC, Ali for short, because Alexandria is a lot of name for a chihuahua to carry on an ID. On the right, Methhead Mary.

In the spirit of all things critter and caffeine, I decided to break out one of my weirder tea bags. It’s a strong Chinese black tea, but it’s also a fish, because obviously.