Meanwhile, the guy who's actually helping make dinner... his opinion goes unrequested. Who's that guy I'm talking about? It's me.
And I really can't get too upset by it, because my wife is just trying to make my Dad feel at home. It wasn't that long ago that my Mom passed away, and, after a brief time of him living on his own, we decided to ask him to move in with us. It's not a decision I regret. Given the opportunity to do it all over again, I would
But it's been tough. You can't have two alpha males in the same wolf pack without one wolf becoming incredibly annoyed at the other.
In the old days, the wise Native American warriors used to walk off into the distance, never to return, after reaching a certain age.*
Yeah, I can see the wisdom in that. Anyway...
"What?" my Dad says.
"I'm cooking shrimp for dinner. Do you want regular or coconut?"
"You're cooking dinner? What are you cooking?"
"I'm cooking shrimp. Would you like regular or coconut"
"Did you say shrimp?"
"Yes, Dad. Shrimp. Would you like regular or coconut?"
By this time I have my head down, so my wife can't see me laughing. That's what she gets for not asking me how I would like the shrimp prepared. I can feel her eyes boring down into the top of my head like angry twin lasers. She knows I'm laughing at her.
"You're cooking shrimp?" my Dad continues. "I like shrimp. Yeah, hmm, that sounds good."
Pause.
"Would you like regular or coconut?" my wife tries again.
"What?" my Dad says again.
"Would You Like Regular Or Coconut?"
"What are you yelling at me for?" my Dad says. A bit indignantly, I might add. "I can hear."
And it's true, my Dad can hear. Unfortunately, he only seems to hear the things he's not supposed to hear. Never the things he's supposed to.
"Dad!" I could yell at him. "There's a fire! Grab your dog and get out!"
"What?" my Dad would say, not moving his eyes off the TV.
"A fire! Get out!"
"What are you yelling at me for? I can hear!" he'd yell back. And then, "Are you grilling chicken? Save me a leg."
On the other hand, my Dad could be sitting down watching his two favorite baseball teams playing each other on TV, and I could be in the kitchen with my wife, and if I lean over and whisper in her ear, "Let's go upstairs," my Dad would yell out at us, "If you're going upstairs, can you bring me back that soft blanket I like?" Anyway...
So my wife apologizes for yelling, and my Dad says, "What kind of shrimp did you say?"
"Regular or coconut. Which one would you like?"
My Dad's paying attention now, so he kind of hears the two choices.
"Hmm... regular. What's the other kind?"
"Coconut."
"Coconut? Hmm, yeah... I like coconut shrimp."
"So you want coconut, then?"
"What's the other kind?"
My wife pauses. She's getting flustered now. Me? I'm still chuckling under my breath. Personally, I prefer coconut. I don't know why my wife is giving my Dad a choice. If she feels like eating regular shrimp, she should make regular shrimp. If she feels like eating coconut shrimp, then she should make coconut. I don't care, and it's that simple. You see, my wife has the good fortune of being married to someone who appreciates and will eat whatever she cooks.
"Regular," my wife says.
"What's regular?"
My wife lets out a sigh. And then she explains how she prepares the shrimp, and the seasonings she uses. I don't think my Dad understood a word of it. Heck, even my eyes started to glaze over.
"I like coconut," my Dad says, without really answering the question. I think he was just taking the path of least resistance, decision making-wise.
So coconut shrimp it is. I win, without even having to play the game, and, besides which, I got a good chuckle out of the whole thing as well.
I remember when I was a kid, my mother never cooked shrimp, so marrying my wife was almost an introduction to the joys of shellfish, those little cockroaches of the sea. The closest thing to shrimp my mother ever cooked was liver, and that's not close at all.
I also remember that to eat that liver I had to add ketchup to it to get it down. A lot of ketchup. In those days, what you were served is what you ate. If you didn't eat, you went hungry. The way it should be. Go to those countries where people are starving, and you don't have picky eaters. You don't have eating disorders. You don't have morbid obesity. What you have is a country of people who would be grateful for some mudwater and a chickpea.
So, even though I might have preferred a hamburger (Come to think of it, why didn't my Mom just make me hamburgers every night?), I ate pretty much whatever was put in front of me. I just added ketchup to whatever I didn't like to help me get it down. Liver? Ketchup. Beans? Ketchup. Heck, I even added ketchup to my scrambled eggs, and I like scrambled eggs.
Why am I telling you all this? Because my wife takes her time preparing and cooking the coconut shrimp. She cooks for us with love, and, as that great philosopher Diana Ross said, "You can't hurry love."
My wife even makes some nice white rice to go with it. Some people have a hard time making rice just right. Not my wife. Her rice always comes out light and fluffy.
So my wife serves my Dad a nice plate of coconut shrimp on a bed of white rice. I count the pieces of shrimp. Hmm, he's got seven. I've only got six. Not that I'm keeping score or anything.
My Dad looks at his plate. Meanwhile, my wife serves herself, and sits down to eat with us. My Dad's still looking at his plate. I don't know what he's looking at. Me? I get started on mine. I don't believe in having a staring contest with my food.
"Do you have any ketchup?" my Dad finally asks. "I like ketchup on my shrimp."
"But it's coconut shrimp, Dad," my wife says softly.
"What?"
"It's coconut shrimp..."
I step in.
"Dad, it's coconut shrimp. You don't put ketchup on coconut shrimp. It's already seasoned. With coconut."
"But I like ketchup on my shrimp."
My wife doesn't even try to argue. She doesn't even say a word. She gets up, goes to the refrigerator, and brings back a bottle of ketchup. She hands it to my dad.
My Dad drowns his shrimp in ketchup, much like I used to do to the liver my mother would also cook with love. I find myself wishing I could tell her, "I'm sorry." Anyway...
My Dad spears a shrimp with his fork, so as to not get any ketchup on his fingers. He takes a bite.
"Mmm... ah... yeah," he smacks. Smack, smack, smack. "Oh, yeah... this shrimp is good." He turns to me.
"Your wife's a good cook," he tells me.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
JimDuchene.BlogSpot.com American Chimpanzee
@JimDuchene
*What I really think happened back then was when a Native American became old, he just wandered off and forgot how to get back.
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